Harry Potter: Dark Phoenix
by rshakey
Summary: Raised by the Unspeakables to be the perfect weapon, Harry Potter is a deadly young man who has never known human affection. Working undercover to discover the truth behind the mysterious Chamber of Secrets, will he survive student life at Hogwarts?
1. Arrival

Harry Potter: Dark Phoenix

Chapter 1: Arrival

Minerva McGonagall paced anxiously back and forth across her cosy office, stopping every so often to peer out of the window. Night had fallen, and a fierce storm was raging above Hogwarts Castle of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Had she been in one of her rare moments of good humour, Minerva may have permitted herself an acerbic comment on the appropriateness of the weather, but her face was drawn and tense, with no trace of humour about it.

As the room was lit up briefly by a dazzling bolt of lightning, she stopped in her tracks, sensing a familiar presence entering the room. "Albus," she stated calmly.

"Minvera," came the equally placid reply.

Forcing herself to turn slowly in order to maintain the controlled façade she prided herself upon, her eyes settled on the tall, thin wizard at her door. Albus Dumbledore's normally twinkling eyes were usually cloudy tonight, and from long familiarity she easily detected the tell-tale traces of disquiet in his lined face.

"Is he – here?" Minerva asked, a faint quiver in the last word betraying her true feelings. Nodding silently, Dumbledore sank down into a heavily upholstered chair, staring intently into the flickering flames of the fire. Rolling her eyes in exasperation, Minerva crossed to the facing chair and sat down, eyes fixed on the Headmaster.

After a long moment, Dumbledore sighed, speaking absently as he remained lost in thought. "I fear, Minerva, we may have been wiser leaving him with his relatives all those years ago."

She snorted. "You can't be serious Albus – I told you they were the worst kind of Muggle."

Dumbledore nodded, but remained silent. Feeling her temper rise, McGonagall added heatedly. "If we had left him with _them,"_ she spat out the last word, "who knows what would have happened to him? For all we know, he might have spent the last eleven years locked in a cupboard!"

Albus glanced up at his colleague's impassioned face. "You're quite right, Minvera – that is, after all, why we chose not to do so. But still…" He trailed off into silence, eyes fixed back on the fire.

McGonagall leaned forward, casting aside her normal reserve. "Has he been - mistreated?" Her voice remained calm, but her fists clenched tightly at her sides, her muscles stiff and tense.

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, the Unspeakables-" he broke off to cast a wary look around him, even though there was virtually no chance of anyone being able to surprise the powerful wizard.

"The Unspeakables have, in many ways, done an admirable job. He is, as Professor Sprout might say, a fine specimen – fit, strong and perfectly healthy."

Minerva watched narrowly, not speaking. She knew by now that it was often what Albus _didn't_ say that mattered the most. The elderly wizard sighed again, nudging a half-burnt log deeper into the fire with his foot.

"It appears though, that the Unspeakables have taken the instructions I gave them rather too literally. I wanted them to keep him safe, make him strong, teach him how to defend himself. What they have done is – well, perhaps you had better see for yourself."

Dumbledore rose heavily from his chair and walked slowly toward the door, McGonagall following obediently in his wake. Outwardly composed, her mind was whirling. What _had_ they done to him?

Like Albus, she had grave misgivings about entrusting the care of the most important wizard alive to the shadowy embrace of the Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries. After all, what did anyone really know about them? Ironically, this had been the deciding factor. The child needed to be raised away from the public eye, kept safe and prepared for his destiny. After watching his relatives for a while, it became apparent that they would simply not suffice, and Dumbledore had reluctantly suggested this compromise.

For eleven years, they had heard nothing, save from the brief yearly reports sent from an undisclosed location. If the reports were to be believed, the boy had achieved a remarkable level of magical skill for one so young. If it were not for those skills, in fact, they would not have requested him for the task at hand.

Shaking the dark thoughts aside, McGonagall hurried after the tall wizard, climbing the stairs to his lonely office. Dumbledore paused at the door, turning to Minerva.

"Perhaps it might be better for me to pre-warn him of your visit. I've learnt that he doesn't respond well to – surprises." Dumbledore winced slightly, rubbing a large bruise on his right hand.

McGonagall's eyes widened. He did _that_? There were only a handful of wizards alive who could have got anywhere near Albus Dumbledore, let alone manage to inflict an injury. "You make the boy sound like some kind of – dangerous animal, Albus," she retorted, trying to inject a note of reality to an increasingly bizarre conversation.

Dumbledore stared back unblinkingly, bright blue eyes fixed on her sceptical face. "Yes, I do, don't I?" Knocking firmly on the door, he slipped inside, pulling the door closed behind him.

Minerva stood rooted to the spot, filled with apprehension. What on earth had this boy become, to make Albus Dumbledore knock on the door of his own office? She could hear the low exchange of voices on the other side of the door, and flinched as the door was suddenly opened.

Dumbledore gestured her in, opening the door wider. Tentatively, she entered the room, eyes fixed on the dark-haired figure stood in the centre of the office. Closing the door firmly, Dumbledore turned, eyes once again twinkling with some suppressed emotion.

"Minvera, I would like to introduce you to our newest student – Harry Potter."

The young wizard stood facing the two Professors, eyes fixed on them. Minerva let out an involuntary gasp as she took in his features. Of course, she could have guessed, having taught both his parents, but still-

"Harry, you look just like your father." She turned excitedly towards Dumbledore, all propriety cast aside. "Doesn't he Albus? Except his eyes – he has-"

"His mother's eyes – yes Minerva," Dumbledore concurred quietly. McGonagall turned back to Harry, who stared back blankly.

"Harry – are you okay? Harry?"

The young man showed no hint of recognition at his name, and McGonagall turned in confusion back to Dumbledore. "Albus?" To her disbelief, Dumbledore looked – embarrassed. He flushed, clearing his throat and leafing frantically through a neat package of documents.

"Ah, yes, Minerva. It appears that the Unspeakables chose, for security reasons, to address Harry by a code name."

McGonagall's mouth dropped open as she silently repeated Dumbledore's words. Dumbledore paled slightly as her face flushed with anger.

"Do you mean to tell me that this child does not even know his real name?" Her voice was thin and laced with barely suppressed fury. Dumbledore took a step backward, wary of her sudden rage. Holding out a placating hand, he spoke soothingly. "Now, Minvera, from their point of view it does make a kind of-"

His voice trailed off as McGonagall shot him a withering look. Clearing his throat again, he cast his eyes down to the paperwork. "Harry has been trained to respond to the code name, umm-" He flicked through a couple of pages, then looked directly at the young man still stood to attention in the office.

"Phoenix."

Harry's eyes shifted towards Dumbledore's, and he spoke for the first time. "Sir?" His voice was low, but carried clearly, his tone clipped and precise.

Dumbledore took Minerva by the arm, and gently led her towards Harry. "I wish you to meet your Transfiguration Professor while you are here – Professor McGonagall."

Standing, if possible, even more rigidly to attention, Harry stiffly extended a hand. "Pleased to meet you, Professor." His tone was polite and deferential, but there was an underlying hardness which made Minerva shudder slightly. Suddenly, she could fully understand the need not to take this disciplined young man by surprise.

"The pleasure is all mine, Ph – Harry," she replied, taking his hand in hers and enjoying the look of exasperation on Dumbledore's face at her deliberate use of Harry's given name.

A brief look of something similar to curiosity passed fleetingly across Harry's face. He shook her hand firmly, then released it, arm swinging naturally back into precise alignment with his side, fingers outstretched.

"Is that to be my cover name, Professor Dumbledore?" he enquired quietly. Minerva shook her head in disbelief, taking a quick step toward him, arms reaching out to grasp his shoulders. Eyes narrowing, Harry took three quick steps backwards, crouching slightly as he moved instantly to a pose of readiness.

McGonagall froze as Dumbledore made a warning noise in his throat. Lowering her hands, she spoke softly, not wanting to alarm him further. "It is not your cover name, Harry – it is _your_ name. Harry James Potter, son of James and Lilly Potter. Surely you knew that?"

Harry's face flickered in momentary confusion, then smoothed out almost instantly. If the two Professors had not been watching him so closely, it would have been easy to miss the momentary lapse of concentration.

"Biographical details are not relevant to my training or my mission, Professor." Harry's voice was remote and unconcerned.

Dumbledore stepped forward, frowning, as he placed a restraining hand on Minerva's shoulder. "And what _is_ your mission, Ha – Phoenix?"

Harry snapped to attention again, the words spilling out in a well-practised monotone. "My mission is to develop the skills and abilities necessary to defeat Dark Wizards in preparation for the return of the wizard known as Voldemort, Sir!"

Albus glanced at Minerva incredulously, mouth open. If the situation hadn't been so serious, she could almost have enjoyed seeing him so discomforted. Clearing her throat, she took up the questioning. "And why is this _your_ mission – specifically?"

"The Prophecy states that only I can defeat Voldemort, or die in the attempt, Ma'am!"

This time Minerva was quite sure that her mouth hung even lower than Dumbledore's. They stared at each other in shock. Never had it occurred to them that the Unspeakables would see fit to share the full contents of the Prophecy with him at such a young age. A hot, murderous anger was churning in Minerva's stomach as she considered the life – no, the existence, that Harry had had instead of a normal childhood. _We made a terrible mistake Albus_, she thought. _Forgive us James. Forgive me Lilly._

"Sir, may I pose a question?" Harry's calm voice interrupted their bitter musings. Dumbledore started, then walked unsteadily to his desk, settling himself in his seat. Clasping his trembling hands in front of him, he nodded mutely at Harry.

"May I have the details of my current assignment, Professor?"

Looking shakily at McGonagall, Dumbledore fixed her with a glance that clearly said _later_, then nodded again. "Professor McGonagall?"

Minerva sat down in one of the two chairs facing Dumbledore's desk, taking a moment to compose herself. Harry swivelled round to face them both, still stiffly at attention.

"Er, _Phoenix,_" she deliberately stressed the name, "won't you please sit down?"

"No thank you, Ma'am," replied Harry politely.

Minerva let out an exasperated sigh. "Well, err – at ease?" she offered, drawing upon her knowledge of Muggle military terms. Harry nodded his head slightly and stood with his legs further apart, hands clasped behind his back. Rubbing her head to dispel the beginnings of a dull ache, Minerva paused for a moment, taking a good look at Harry for the first time.

Albus had been correct, she mused – Harry was in excellent physical condition. She remembered that James Potter had been rather small for his age when he had started Hogwarts, but, whatever else they had failed in, the Unspeakables had clearly fed him well. Harry was well-formed and muscular, tall for a twelve year-old boy. His face was lean and angular, testament to many hours of intense physical training, and his hair was close-cropped to his skull. There were other differences too – James had always worn glasses, but Harry had clearly inherited his mother's eye sight as well as colour. Either that, or the Unspeakables had performed some sight-correction magic at an early age. _Poor eyesight is probably considered a tactical disadvantage_, she thought bitterly. Without glasses to obscure them, his large green eyes blazed out at the world with a fierce intensity, and Minerva found the effect mesmerizing.

She had no doubt that, coupled with his height, build and dark good looks, his eyes would wreak an equally mesmerizing effect on much younger witches than herself. Not that such superfluous social fraternizations featured heavily on the Unspeakables' training regime.

Despite his near-adult height and air of quiet self-sufficiency, Minerva detected an air of vulnerability which made her heart ache. This boy may have been raised to be a weapon in the fight against Dark magic, but he was still a boy, and in need of a mother's love.

Rousing herself from her worryingly maternal thoughts, Minerva concentrated on – what did he call it – the assignment.

"Well – Phoenix," she stated briskly, "the situation is this. As you may have been briefed, there have been some troubling events at Hogwarts this year, all connected with the Chamber of Secrets, reputed to have been reopened by the Heir of Slytherin…"

While she outlined the disturbing signs and Petrifications that had occurred over the Autumn term, Harry's eyes remained fixed and unblinking on hers as he impassively took in every word.

When she had finished, Harry nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you for the background, Professor. And to my mission?"

McGonagall glanced at Dumbledore, raising an eyebrow incredulously. _That_ was all the reaction it merited? The old wizard shrugged his shoulders, eyes twinkling with merriment for the first time. Muttering under her breath, she turned back to the young man still stood silently in front of her.

"Yes, well, the staff are doing their best to protect the students, but what we need is someone to work from within the student body to find and stop whoever is responsible from carrying out any more attacks. That will be your job."

She pulled out a sheaf of documents from inside her robes and handed them over to Harry. "Your cover identity. As your _real_ identity is somewhat well known in the magical world – apologies for the irrelevant biographical details – you will take on the identity of an exchange student from The Durmstrang Institute for Magical Learning by the name of Viktor Krum."

She paused, fixing the young wizard with a challenging look. "You are, I take it, familiar with the Bulgarian language?"

The barest flicker of amusement crossed Harry's composed features. "Iskate li da tancuvame?"

Minerva scowled uncomprehendingly, whilst from behind his desk Dumbledore snorted in amusement, before interjecting for the first time.

"Yes, well Phoenix, I believe that there has been enough dancing around for now – perhaps you wish to review the material and rest following your journey."

Harry turned to Dumblefore and nodded his head slightly. "As you wish, Professor." Dumbledore smiled broadly, then clicked his fingers and a house-elf appeared.

"Ah, Tinky, isn't it? Please will you show our new exchange student, Mr Krum, to his guest quarters? He will be staying in the Second Year dormitory in Griffindor Tower."

Harry turned and nodded to McGonagall. "Professor." Following the house-elf, he strode out of the office without a backwards glance.

Minerva let out an explosive sigh. "Well, Albus, what _are_ we going to do about that young man?"

Dumbledore gazed back benignly. "Do, Minerva? I don't intend to do anything?"

"You're surely not going to let him go through his life like that, are you?" Minerva snapped incredulously.

Dumbledore chuckled, but the mirth didn't quite reach his eyes. "Minerva, we have done that man a great wrong these past eleven years. The best course of treatment for him, in my opinion, is a good dose of normal Hogwarts life."

Minerva narrowed her eyes at the Headmaster and made an inarticulate noise in her throat. "I hope so Albus," she sighed, turning to look at the empty office door. "Something tells me that Harry's life is going to be far from normal."


	2. Misfit

Chapter 2 – Misfit

Ron Weasley was sick and tired of his life.

First, he was a Weasley, which not only meant that everyone always compared him with his famous older brothers, but that for some people – especially slimy blond Slytherins – he was some kind of second-class wizard.

Second, he hated school. The only good lessons were – actually, there _were_ no good lessons. He hated them all. McGonagall was okay, he supposed, but blimey, she wasn't half strict. And Snape – well, the less said about that git, the better.

Then there were his friends. Or to be more exact, his _lack_ of friends. Well, there was Seamus, Dean and Neville, his dorm-mates –but they were just everyday friends, not really good mates.

And then there was Hermione. Where did she fit in? He supposed she was a friend, maybe even a good friend, but why did she have to be so aggravating? Always telling him what to do, when to do it and how he should have done it. Fred and George were always teasing him, calling him Mrs Granger and telling him to run along before he got into trouble 'at home'. Him and Hermione? As if. Not that she wasn't pretty - well, kind of, in a Hermione-y sort of way.

And now, just to add insult to injury, guess who got saddled with the Durmstrang exchange student? That's right. Ron bloody Weasley.

Punching his pillow savagely, he pretended that it was the Durmstrang boy's face. He'd only met him yesterday, but already he hated the arrogant git. This Viktor Krum bloke clearly thought he was the bees knees, strutting round the place, barely speaking to anyone. Ron had tried to be friendly when he picked him up from McGonagall's office – he gave him the tour, offered him some sage advice about short-cuts, teachers and students, and what did the git say? Nothing. Just walked around silently, staring at him with those stupid green eyes of his.

And that was another thing. Of course, _Vicky_ would be tall, dark and handsome. Well, he would, wouldn't he? All the girls in the third year and below certainly seemed to have noticed as well, including Hermione and his sister. He'd caught them giggling in the common room yesterday, glancing over at the git, who just sat on his own looking bored. Git. Slimy gitty git git.

Ron sighed. He supposed he was being unfair. After all, maybe Krum couldn't help being a complete git. Malfoy certainly couldn't. Maybe they should form some kind of self-help club. Gits Anonymous. And at least the new arrival had pulled Ginny out of her funk for a while, which these days was something of a miracle.

Besides that, the only good thing to come out of the whole Krum situation was the fifty House Points McGonagall had promised him if he 'took care' of the new student. He punched the pillow again, scowling. When he had told Hermione that, she had offered to 'take care' of Krum herself, blushing in a way that made his blood boil.

He swung his feet out of bed, rubbing his face sleepily, and glanced over at the newly occupied bed. Krum was already up – Ron had blearily opened an eye an hour earlier to see him heading out in gym gear, off for a run, or yoga, or whatever it was that gits did at six in the morning.

As if he had been Summoned, Krum padded silently back into the room, looking disgustingly healthy. Seeing Ron, he nodded in greeting.

"Good morning Ronald. I trust you are well?"

Ron felt his ears redden. The only one who called him Ronald were his mum and Ginny – and only then when he was in trouble.

"Ron," he replied gruffly.

Krum glanced over at him. "Right. Ron." For a second, Ron could have sworn that he looked a bit uncertain, but then why would he be? Gits like him never were, right?

Peeling off his sweaty clothes, Krum neatly and efficiently laid out his uniform on top of his immaculate bed. Everything looked brand-new and perfectly clean. Casting his eye over the crumpled pile of clothes at his feet, Ron scowled at the tatty second-hand uniform he had inherited from Percy. Lost in thought, he didn't realise that Krum had gone into the bathroom until he was interrupted by a familiar and nervous-sounding voice.

"Ron – can we talk?"

Looking up, Ron frowned at his younger sister, Ginny, who was swaying on the spot and, as usual, clutching her diary.

"What are you doing here?" he said, not too unkindly. As the nearest in age to him, he generally got on okay with Ginny – she was alright, really, for a girl. "Are you supposed to be in the boy's dormitory?"

Ginny flushed slightly, then stepped closer, twisting her clasped fingers nervously. She was like this a lot recently, Ron thought, nothing like her usual confident self. He realised with a pang of guilt that maybe he wasn't the only one who hated Hogwarts life.

Patting his bed, he said bracingly, "Come on Gin-Gin – let's have a chat." Ginny's face flushed with pleasure and she looked indescribably relieved. He took a couple of tentative steps towards him, a strange expression on her face. He was just about to ask her what was going on when the bathroom door swung open revealing Krum, with a towel wrapped round his waist.

Turning towards him at the same time, both Ron and Ginny's mouths dropped open in unison. Krum was built like – well, he was just _built_. How on earth did a twelve year-old boy get muscles like _that_? Ron felt a wave of resentment sweep over him as he pictured his own skinny, pale frame.

There was a thud as Ginny's diary hit the floor, and Ron looked over to see her face erupt into redness. Clearly Ginny had noticed Krum's muscles too. With her face burning so brightly even Ron was impressed, she stammered an inarticulate apology and sprinted for the door. Unfortunately, she slipped on Ron's dirty clothes and was catapulted head-first towards the floor.

Ron gasped, wincing in sympathy at the upcoming fall – but it never happened. Suddenly, amazingly, Krum had leapt from one side of the dorm to the other and caught Ginny up before she could hit the floor. Lifting her carefully back up to her feet, he supported her weight effortlessly with one arm.

"Are you okay?" Ron blinked in amazement. Not only was Krum lighting-fast, but for once he actually sounded – human.

Ginny nodded shakily, looking like she might burst in tears at any moment, and Krum, seeming to suddenly realise his state of undress, flushed slightly and slowly released his grip on her, keeping one hand on her arm for a moment while she regained her balance.

"Th-thanks," she muttered, her eyes downcast and blushing more brightly than ever.

"Glad I could help," replied Krum, seemingly over his momentary embarrassment. "You're Ginny – Ron's sister, aren't you?"

Ron was amazed. "How did you know that?" he asked, realising afterwards that it sounded like an accusation. Krum looked at him coolly, and Ron felt his own face flush with embarrassment. For some reason, he felt as if Krum was sizing him up, evaluating him somehow.

"You told me about Ginny yesterday Ron, while we were walking past the Potions dungeons. Her and your five brothers."

Krum's tone was matter of fact, as if he were reading the Quidditch scores, but Ron was astounded. He could have sworn that Krum was ignoring him during the tour of the castle – obviously not.

"I didn't think you were listening," he admitted. Krum stared at him speculatively for a moment, then an expression that may have once been a distant relation of humour flitted across his face.

"Of course I was Ron. The information you provided me with was – useful."

During the brief conversation, Ginny had been looking back and forth between the two, a look of abject humiliation on her face as she edged toward the door. She bolted for the stairs at the same time as Krum, noticing she had left her diary behind, picked it up, calling, "Ginny – your diary."

"Don't touch that!"

Ron jerked in astonishment as Ginny spat the words at Krum, who had frozen as if Petrified, holding the diary out to her. Snatching the diary from his unresisting hand, Ginny wheeled round and raced out in blind panic.

Krum stood for a moment, looking rather stunned. He turned to Ron with a questioning expression on his normally impassive face. "Did I do something – incorrect?"

Ron stifled a snort of laughter at Krum's formal phrasing. "No idea mate – that's girls for you though, right? Bonkers."

Krum stared at Ron for a long moment, examining him with those piercing eyes of his. "I wouldn't know," he muttered finally, almost talking to himself as he turned towards his bed.

"Oh?" Ron said, interested despite himself. "I thought they had girls at Durmstrang." Krum paused for a second, shoulders hunched, then answered in his normal disinterested voice. "Some. Not many."

"Right," said Ron, chuckling. "Too cold for them up there I bet."

Krum jerked his head in a quick nod and began to quickly get dressed. Yawning, Ron lumbered towards the bathroom. "Time for breakfast, I guess," he mumbled. Pausing at the door of the bathroom, he turned back towards Krum, hardly believing what he was about to say.

"Wait for me if you want – we'll go down together." Krum looked up sharply, a muscle in his cheek twitching.

"I will," he replied quietly.

Ron went into the bathroom, humming quietly to himself. Maybe Viktor Krum wasn't _quite_ as much of a git as Malfoy after all, he thought.


	3. Conflict

Chapter 3 – Conflict

Phoenix had to admit that this assignment was proving to be more - challenging than he had initially thought. His brief had seemed straightforward, but he had not taken into account how _strange_ civilians were – especially young ones. He knew that, objectively, he was still a child just like the other Second Year students, but he felt nothing in common with them. They were so loud and boisterous and _sloppy_. No awareness of their surroundings, no discipline – it was frustrating to watch.

Still, he was trained to deal with all eventualities, and as long as he stuck to the Code, there would be no problems. Not that there was any danger of him not doing that, he thought. The Code was not just something taught, it was an integral part of his everyday existence.

No surrender.

No compromise.

No mercy.

These three simple statements governed his every waking moment. The Code was what drove him to excel in training, to prevail against larger enemy forces, to complete his mission regardless of the cost.

With the Code as his constant companion, what did it matter if he fitted in with the other students? Having friends was an alien concept, one reserved for civilians. He didn't resent them for it, any more than he resented the sun rising in the morning. These were simple facts. Civilians did what they did. He did what he did. Simple.

The crisp morning air bit cleanly through his lungs, invigorating and cool, as he ran swiftly and silently around the lake. Having to wake much earlier than the students didn't bother him in the slightest. It was just another way in which he was different to them. Besides, it gave him time to sift through yesterday's events in regards to his assignment.

The day had been eventful in a superficial sense, but there was little that bore any relation to him completing his assignment. During his tour around the school two days ago, he had already discounted Ronald Weasley as a potential suspect – the boy was too open and trusting to be an enemy operative.

Still, as he had admitted yesterday, the information Ronald had given him was useful for his operations within this environment. While it was not necessary for him to form social or emotional links with other students, he needed a rudimentary understanding of school life in order to continue to operate covertly.

Unconsciously speeding up, he considered the other part of the exchange in the dorm room before lessons began. It was unfortunate that he had exposed his physical conditioning to the two Weasleys – he was well aware that his level of fitness was not normal for a civilian of his age.

Fortunately, Ginny Weasley's fall had distracted attention away from him, although he was irritated that he had also revealed the swiftness of his reflexes by catching her. From a tactical point of view, his interests would have been better served by letting her fall. He frowned, his breath coming faster as he pounded down the lake-side path.

He had to admit that he had reacted instinctively, seeing the look of shock on the young girl's face. He couldn't rationalise it, so he decided to discount it as irrelevant. After all, it had involved little effort, and it may prove useful to cultivate the gratitude of the Weasleys.

The girl herself – Ginny – was difficult to categorise. Her embarrassed reaction to him catching her and general nervousness placed her in a low suspect category, but then there was her reaction to his picking up the diary…

Realising with a start that he had been running flat out for the last two miles, he slowed gradually to a walk, then stopped to regain his breath. It wouldn't do to arrive back at the castle in a state which would draw attention to him.

Leaning on a large rock, he scanned his surroundings instinctively, eyes moving without any conscious prompting. Gathering his thoughts, he re-evaluated Ginny Weasley. Physically, she posed no threat – when he had held her in his arms he had been surprised by how thin she was; delicate, almost frail.

And yet he had been taken aback by the fire in her eyes when she had reprimanded him for picking up the diary. That kind of determination and passion was unusual in a civilian – and bore more scrutiny. He stared out across the lake, barely taking in the beauty of the view. Such things meant little to his mission.

He wondered idly what he had done to provoke her wrath. He knew that some civilians liked to keep diaries, and that many regarded them as private. Had she been concerned that he would attempt to read it? Of course, he had no interest in that, but she would not know it.

Either way, there was something about Ginny Weasley that merited closer attention.

By the time he had arrived back at the dormitory, Ronald – Ron, he corrected himself absently, was up and waiting for him. Nodding a greeting, he felt relieved that Ron was taking his duties as a host seriously – it made it easier for him to blend in if he entered the Hall with another student.

After breakfast, he was somewhat startled when Ron fell into step with him on the way to the Potions classroom. This had never happened before, and Phoenix couldn't help but feel grateful for the company. Not that he needed it, he told himself. It just made his assignment – easier.

The Potions lesson proved to be fruitful in providing some interesting leads, and Phoenix was pleased that his growing alliance with Ron Weasley had been instrumental in developing them.

Ron clearly had an antagonistic relationship with the Potions Master – Professor Snape. This was not surprising – after all, the man was clearly an insecure personality type. What did intrigue Phoenix was the vindictive nature with which Snape targeted certain students in the class – Ron amongst them.

Given that the 'Heir of Slytherin' had also targeted certain students in his attacks, Snape was also worth further investigation – there was something about him which triggered warning bells in Phoenix's highly trained mind.

Throughout the lesson, Phoenix had been aware of a rivalry between Ron and Draco Malfoy, a student from Slytherin House. Malfoy had resorted to various childish tactics to bait Ron into responding, and Phoenix had found himself cautioning Ron not to respond. He could see that Ron, who clearly lacked tactical awareness, would have responded and found himself being punished by the waiting Snape. Phoenix counselled Ron that if he truly wished retribution, he should wait until there were no teachers present.

Ron's friend, Hermione Granger, had seemed disgusted at this and Phoenix was uncomfortably aware of her eyes straying to him during the lesson. Meeting her gaze directly one time, he saw a keen, perceptive intellect which he needed to be mindful of if he wished to maintain his cover. With that in mind, he vowed to attempt to defuse Miss Granger's suspicions at the next available opportunity.

As the lesson finished, Ron had surged forward, keen to leave, and Phoenix lingered behind to observe Snape for a few moments longer. He noted that Snape had an office behind the classroom, and that the Professor used only standard locking spells to secure it. Sloppy and unwise – typical civilian.

As Phoenix walked quietly, he could hear the sound of raised voices, one of which he recognised as Ron's. Unaccountably, he felt a slight anxiety at this and quickened his pace to catch up.

Ron, red-faced and incandescent with rage, was trading insults with Malfoy while a large crowd gathered, obviously spoiling for a fight. Phoenix's eyes narrowed as he took in the situation at a glance. In his rage, Ron had failed to take account of the two large students lurking behind Malfoy with ugly expressions on even uglier faces.

Phoenix lingered on the edges of the crowd, uncertain whether or not to intervene. He was surprised to discover an irrational urge to support Ron, despite the fact that it would draw attention to his presence at the school.

Taking a deep breath in, he drew on the Code for guidance. While he wished to assist Ron, it might compromise his assignment. The logical course of action would be to simply walk away and claim to have not heard the row. He lingered though, telling himself that he may gain further insights into Malfoy's personality.

Tensions rose quickly, and Malfoy, bolstered by the presence of the two thugs, was about to resort to violence, physical or magical, when something so unexpected happened that it took even Phoenix by surprise.

Out of the swirling mass of students surrounding the combatants, a small, red-haired figure darted out, interposing herself between Ron and Malfoy. Ginny Weasley.

Before he realised what he was doing, Phoenix was moving, using his elbows and feet to begin cutting a swathe through the crowd. Several students cried out in pain as he ruthlessly carved a path towards the centre, eyes fixed on the small red-head.

Ginny was screaming with rage, protectively shielding her much larger brother, wand waving dangerously under Malfoy's nose. Phoenix couldn't hear what was being said over the roar of the crowd, but there was a sudden gasp, and Ginny's flushed face paled in shock. Recklessly increasing his pace, Phoenix shoved the remaining students out of the way, ignoring the screaming warnings from his training. He could see what was about to happen, even before those involved knew it.

Ginny, eyes blazing with fury, spat back a comment at Malfoy which made his jaw sag momentarily. Recovering himself, his eyes hardened as he raised a hand, pulling back to launch an open-handed slap on Ginny's face. Malfoy's face contorted with rage as his hand whistled through the air towards the young girl – he wanted to hurt and humiliate her as she had done to him with her words.

His hand never made it. There was a loud smack as Malfoy's slim hand was caught inside Phoenix's larger one, inches from Ginny's face. Malfoy's eyes widened in surprise as they followed the arm which had appeared between him and Ginny upwards to his captor's face. Two blazing green eyes, alight with a cold savagery stared down at him. Then all hell broke loose.

In a movement so quick that those watching would later argue heatedly over the precise sequence, Phoenix snapped Malfoy's wrist back, shattering his wrist in three places. Simultaneously, his left arm slammed down on the exposed forearm, twisting the vulnerable radius and ulna in two directions at once. The effect was catastrophic. Malfoy's arm ruptured into four separate compound fractures, effectively rendering it useless. He fell, disabled, to the floor as Phoenix stepped over his body.

Goyle, the larger of the two students, had just begun to react, his enormous fist drawing back to launch one of his trademark knock-out punches. Fast as he was, Phoenix was much faster. His iron fist stuck a devastating blow to Goyle's throat, sending him choking and spluttering to the floor before he even knew what had happened.

Spinning on the balls of his feet, Phoenix turned just in time to watch Ron's fist connect cleanly with Crabbe's jutting jaw. The bulbous Crabbe's eyes rolled over and Phoenix watched in professional admiration as he slumped to the floor, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Breathing heavily, Ron turned towards Phoenix, his eyes widening as he took in the incapacitated forms of Malfoy, who was whimpering and cradling his arm, and Goyle, who had his hands round his throat, gasping for air. His eyes met Phoenix's, and he inclined his head slightly, a grin spreading over his feet. Phoenix, his mind in conflict over his actions, found his lips parting in a tentative, but visible smile.

The crowd shifted restlessly as, at the back, the raised voices of Hogwarts staff could be heard, and Phoenix knew they had seconds to act. Looping an arm around the shaking form of Ginny Weasley, he began moving away from the advancing teachers. The crowd shrank back from the hard-faced boy, and, with Ron and Hermione in tow, he led them quickly away to the Griffindor common room.

Half- supporting, half-carrying Ginny's unresisting body through the portrait door, Phoenix carefully led her to the nearest seat, placing her gently down on it. He took her face in his hand, moving it slowly to check for injuries and to look for visible signs of clinical shock. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated, but her breathing was regular and her colour returning. Judging that she was okay, he released his grip and strode over to the window, shoulders hunched as he took in the ramifications of his actions.

In his mind, he could hear the voices of his instructors railing at him. He had exposed himself unnecessarily, compromised the assignment with no good cause. What did it matter if the Weasleys were humiliated and bruised? The assignment was more important than all of that. He had broken with the Code, and for what?

Dimly in the back of his mind, a voice was whispering the answer to him. He ignored it, striving mightily to blot it out with the calm purity of the Code.

No surrender. _He had surrendered his objectivity._

No compromise. _He had compromised his principles._

No mercy._ He had shown mercy for the weak._

He groaned, pounding his head with his bruised fist. What was happening to him? Gradually his breathing slowed and his mind ordered itself once more. He had not broken the Code, he had simply responded flexibly to the situation. There must be a way to turn the situation to a tactical advantage. If nothing else, surely he would have gained the trust of the students in the room.

_But that's not why you did it, is it Harry_, the voice in the back of his head whispered maliciously. Phoenix stiffened. He was not Harry Potter. Harry Potter was weak and died a long time ago. He had been reborn. He was Phoenix.

Wasn't he?


	4. Caught

Chapter 4 – Caught

Ginny Weasley slumped in the armchair, heart pounding as she fought to control the tears which threatened to spill from her eyes. The events of the last few days had left her feeling shaken and raw, and she desperately wanted the comforting embrace of her mother. She didn't care if it made her a baby, what her brother might say, or even how Viktor might view her – she just wanted her mum.

A slim arm slipped over her shoulders, and Ginny felt the comforting presence of another person sitting close to her. Looking up, she gazed into the intelligent, expressive face of Hermione Granger, who was giving her a sympathetic and understanding look. Ginny felt somewhat shocked at this – she had always felt so alone at Hogwarts, as if no-one cared. Well except for- but her mind shied away at completing _that_ thought. That was behind her now. Madame Pomfrey would brew the antidote, and no-one would ever have to know.

Gazing across the room, she could see Victor's toned back, his shoulders hunched as if warding off a blow. Her heart skipped and danced over to him, something she would never be brave enough to do in person. If only he knew how much he had helped her. But he never would. No-one would. Not if she had anything to do with it. Relaxing into the older girl's warm embrace, Ginny allowed herself to drift off, her eyes closing as her thoughts spiralled back twenty-four hours…

She had entered the room determined to tell Ron about what was wrong with her. Clutching the hated diary to her side, she screwed up all her courage and spoke. This was her brother. He loved her, she knew that, despite what _he_ said.

"Ron, can we talk?"

There! She had said it. Trembling all over, she waited for his response.

"What are you doing here?" Ginny's heart plummeted. _He _was right after all. No-one cared. No-one but _him_. She was about to turn and walk away, when Ron's next words, spoken more kindly, halted her in her tracks.

"Are you supposed to be in the boy's dormitory?" Her heart kick-started again, thumping painfully in her chest. He was just worried about her, that was all. Ron always tried to protect her from trouble. Little did he know that she was often the one responsible for it in the first place. Or at least she had been, before this year – before _him_.

"Come on Gin-Gin – let's have a chat."

Ginny felt her face flush – only Ron knew that she secretly liked her family nickname, despite her protestations. She took a few tentative steps towards him, lip beginning to quiver, when her steps were halted by the sound of the bathroom door. Turning, her jaw dropped as she gazed upon the most beautiful sight of her young life.

Framed by the doorway, a young man stood bare-chested, still dripping from the shower, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. But this was no ordinary boy of her age. Living in a house full of brothers, Ginny had seen plenty of male chests of all ages, and she knew that none of her brothers had ever looked like this at twelve years old. Risking a glance at Ron, she could tell from his stunned expression that he was thinking the same thing. _How on earth did he get a body like that?_

Drowning in humiliated embarrassment, she tried to say something, anything, to excuse her presence in the room but only inarticulate mumbling came out. A wave of mortification and panic was rising inside her. What must he think of her, staring at him like that? Heart racing, she bolted for the exit, unheeding of any obstacles in her way. She had to get out. Now.

There was a sickening moment of realisation as her foot landed on something smooth, just before it shifted under her weight. Her eyes wide, she fell forwards, knowing from previous experience that this fall was going to be bad – this time she might break something-

Except she didn't fall. Strong arms were suddenly encircling her waist, halting the descent. Helplessly, she found herself lifted up and drawn close against the bare chest that she had been staring at a few seconds previously. Her mind was filled with intoxicating, overwhelming sensations. The warmth of his skin. The steady, reassuring thud of his heart. The gentle strength in his arms. The fresh, clean smell that was just him.

Ever since she had started at Hogwarts, she had been falling. She had hoped that Ron could slow the momentum, but suddenly, amazingly, a stranger had halted it, and pulled her back upright. This was real. Not scribbled words in a dusty diary. Not dizzy moments of half-remembered actions and a creeping sense of dread. This moment, this boy – this was reality.

All too soon, it was over. He shifted away from her, and she barely had time to feel a sense of loss before his warm hand cradled her arm gently, supporting her while she regained her balance.

"Are you okay?"

His soft voice close to her ear made her shudder, and she felt his hand tighten on her arm momentarily. Looking up, she met his gaze and lost herself in the brilliant green depths. This was like nothing she had ever imagined. She had no words, no frame of reference for this – it was frightening and all too adult.

As his hand dropped away she regained the power of speech – at least in part.

"T-thanks." Her face was, she was certain, glowing more brightly than it ever had before. For a moment, his intense gaze flickered and softened, his face looking strangely younger than it had before. Before she could even be sure of what she had seen, his eyes hardened and his face became an impassive mask again.

"Glad I could help. You're Ginny – Ron's sister, aren't you?" His voice was low and clear, with a note of calm command that insisted on a response. The only problem was that Ginny, unable to take her eyes off his smooth, muscled chest, was currently incapable of speech again. She managed a jerky nod, and then immediately blushed to the roots of her hair. _Stop it, you idiot_, she commanded herself, but this only made the problem worse.

Ginny felt overwhelmed by a tide of sadness for this strange boy, so controlled and independent, and yet so alone. She barely heard him speaking to Ron – something to do with Ron talking about their family. A hard lump rose in her throat and she knew that tears would soon follow. Spinning round, she darted for the door, only to be halted by Viktor's next words.

"Ginny, your diary."

A wave of dread crashed over her. She whirled round, only to see him holding the diary. If he opened it, if he saw that it was empty-

"Don't touch that!" As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew that she had spoken too harshly, over-reacted needlessly, but she couldn't help it. Victor's calm façade had been momentarily breached – he looked confused, almost guilty. _He thinks he's done something wrong_, Ginny realised. Unable to control her instinctual reaction, she had already torn the diary from his hands and was through the door before her mind had a chance to catch up with her body. For a split-second, she considered returning, reassuring him that she was at fault, not him. But it was too late. Besides, she had to get rid of the diary, before it did any more harm.

Racing through the corridors, she pelted for the main doors. She was dimly aware of angry shouts and wondering stares from students as she barged past them. It didn't matter.

Heart pounding, a single driving imperative was racing through her mind. _Destroy the diary – destroy him._ Sprinting across the grounds now, her hair streaming behind her, she flew light-footedly towards the lake. If she could drown the diary in its cold depths, the pages would become water-logged and turn to pulp. Her words, her deeds would drown with it – with _him_.

Panting raggedly, she staggered to the edge of the lake, her head swimming with the exertion of her mad dash. Cocking her hand back, she prepared to hurl the hated diary into the lake, hand trembling.

_If you destroy me, you'll always be alone._ The soft, insinuating voice stole over her consciousness, warm numbing tentacles of oblivion seeking purchase in her mind. It would be so easy to surrender again, to let herself fall back into _his_ grasp.

Except she was no longer falling. The boy with the bright green eyes had caught her, saved her, and she could now see how shallow and insubstantial Tom Riddle's promises had been. All of Tom's words, his subtly poisonous suggestions – all of it was nothing compared to the peace and contentment she had felt in that one moment with Viktor.

Face hardening, she drew back her arm again. "Time for a bath, Tom," she murmured savagely. Summoning all her strength, she hurled the diary as hard as she could. It skimmed across the surface of the water, then began to sink as the water invaded the pages and weighed it down.

_Noooo! You can't leave me! No-one leaves me – no-one…_

The enraged voice, no longer silky and charming, faded into nothing as the diary sunk into the icy depths of the lake. Ginny took a deep, shuddering breath in, and burst into tears of relief. Until the diary had gone, she hadn't realised just how clouded and weak it had made her.

As the sun rose up over the horizon, bringing the promise of a new day with it, she stood watching. Her face was streaked with drying tracks of tears, but she felt more in control and alive than ever before…

"Ginny, are you okay?"

Hermione's soft voice brought Ginny back to the present with a jolt. She was still in the common room, and Hermione was still embracing her comfortingly. Breathing out explosively, she nodded, wiping the stray tears away from her eyes and straightening in her chair.

"I'm okay – honest." Her voice was quiet but clear, and she realised that she was in fact okay – better than okay. Turning to Hermione, she squeezed the older witch's hand in gratitude. "Thanks Hermione – you've been great."

Hermione's eyes twinkled as she flushed from the compliment. "It was nothing," she murmured softly, voice dropping so that she couldn't be overheard. "Besides, what are friends for?"

Ginny felt a rusty, long unused smile breaking out on her lips. She had a friend. She looked over at Ron, to find him staring anxiously at her. Two friends, she corrected herself, smiling more broadly.

Ron's anxious expression softened, and wild look of exhilaration spread over his face. "That. Was. Brilliant!" he roared, making both Ginny and Hermione jump nervously. The two girls exchanged a look of exasperation – only boys would find fighting exciting.

Ginny watched in amusement as Ron, now up on his feet, proceeded to relive the fight. "Did you see that punch?" he chortled, face alight with glee. "Crabbe didn't know what hit him! And what about you Ginny – Malfoy's face when you told him to-"

Ginny's face heated. "Yes, well, Ron – I don't think we need to say that again," she interjected hastily. The last thing she needed was word of _that_ getting back to her mother.

Hermione, who seemed to be battling between amusement and anger, finally spoke up. "I think, Ronald, that you are forgetting one person here?" She nodded silently towards Victor, who had turned to watch them speak.

Ginny followed her gaze, and shivered when she found those piercing green eyes fixed on hers. Her body still recalled how he had cradled her to his side on the journey to the common-room, how tenderly he had touched her face when checking her over. She felt her cheeks heating as a flood of unfamiliar emotions swept through her, not helped by the fact that he was still watching her intently.

Ron, clearly remembering his manners, strode over to Victor, holding out his hand. "Thanks mate," he said gruffly. "Couldn't have done it without you." Victor seemed taken aback by the praise, but slowly unfolded his arms and shook Ron's hand briefly.

"I was just following your lead Ron," he said calmly, and Ginny felt a wave of gratitude sweep over her as she saw her brother stand taller, bolstered by his words. She met Victor's eyes for a moment, trying to silently communicate her thanks, and was startled to see the corner of his lip turn up in an unmistakable smile. She didn't realise he _did_ smiling.

"Maybe," continued Ron, "but how did you take Malfoy and Goyle down so quickly? I didn't even see what you did." Ginny shivered again, feeling Hermione shiver in appreciation. She had seen what he did, and found it deeply unsettling. The clinical, ferocious way in which Victor had incapacitated the two boys was like nothing she had ever seen before. The most frightening thing about it was that he didn't seem at all bothered by the injuries he had inflicted.

Victor shrugged lightly, his face its usual mask of indifference. "Just got lucky," he murmured. Ginny's eyes narrowed and she glanced at Hermione to see a similar look of disbelief on her face. There was no luck behind his actions – each was carefully considered and flawlessly executed. He had been taught to fight like that – and taught very well. The question was: why did a twelve year-old boy need to fight like that?

Ginny felt his eyes on her again, and looked up to see him regarding her and Hermione with a wary expression. His gaze shifted, looking at each girl in turn, an unreadable, guarded expression in his eyes. She looked at Hermione, and both girls nodded simultaneously. Whatever the reason, if he wanted it kept quiet, they would agree. Ginny looked back at him. For now.

Ron looped a friendly arm over Victor's shoulders, and dragged him towards the girls. "Come on mate," he said peaceably. "We'd better go and sit with the girls." His voice lowered to what he clearly thought was a whisper. "They'll be feeling upset – you know?"

A snort of indignation came from beside Ginny, and Hermione leapt to her feet, enraged with Ron. "Just because you," she screamed, jabbing her finger in Ron's chest, "are a male chauvinist pig, doesn't mean everyone is, Ronald."

Ron's face fired up, as it always did when Hermione started an argument. He responded heatedly, and they drifted off across the common-room, bickering furiously. Victor stood awkwardly, looking unsure whether to intervene or not.

Taking pity on him, Ginny screwed up all her newly-regained courage, and spoke to him directly.

"Why don't you come and sit down? They'll be at it for ages."

She patted the sofa next to hers, then found her face burning with embarrassment as he jerkily obeyed, sitting down next to her. She hadn't expected him to sit quite so close. _Just keep breathing_, she told herself.

"Are they often like this?" Victor's voice was low, but unmistakably amused.

Ginny sighed, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly. "Only most times they speak," she said lightly, silently thankful that her blush was subsiding. _You can do this Ginny_, she silently exhorted. _Just be yourself_.

A long silence followed, in which Ginny fought with herself over the words she wanted to speak, but hardly knew how to.

"Thanks-"

"I'm sorry-"

They both stopped in embarrassment. Ginny's mind whirled. What was he sorry about? Sorry that he had stepped in and rescued her? She wasn't – she could vividly remember the shock she had felt as Malfoy went to hit her.

Viktor spoke first. "Please, you first," he said calmly. Ginny felt a sense of exasperation – where did he learn such confidence and control? She had a sudden urge to say or do something to shatter his reserve – just to see what lay beneath.

"I wanted to thank you – for protecting me," she muttered awkwardly, then blushed immediately. _Protecting me?_ _Nice one, Ginny_. Victor remained silent, and Ginny felt compelled to speak again.

"And – and for yesterday. You know, when you – caught me?" Victor nodded silently, his eyes fixed on hers. He looked suddenly uncertain, as if he was in unknown territory, and Ginny felt again the urge to break through his façade. Without thinking, she leaned over and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

"Well, thanks," she murmured in his ear, then leaned back again, watching him closely. Her heart was beating furiously, and she could feel the slow but steady rise of embarrassment creeping up her neck. Dragging her eyes upwards, she looked at his face.

What she saw there made her heart shudder to a halt. She had wanted to break his reserve, but she had never imagined such naked, raw emotion. Viktor's eyes were clouded with tears, his jaw slack and a look of desperate yearning plain on his face. _He looks as if no-one ever kissed him before_, Ginny thought, then her heart gave a sudden lurch again._ Oh._

In that moment, it was clear to see that this lonely, reserved boy had never received even the simplest of human affections or kindnesses. His hand unconsciously touched his cheek where she had kissed it, and he stroked it gently, a wondering expression in his eyes. Ginny felt her eyes sting with tears, as the full extent of the deprived existence that this boy had had became apparent. Unable to bear it any longer, she impulsively threw her arms around his neck, pulling him close to her.

At first, he resisted stiffly, his body rigid. Tightening her grip around him, Ginny refused to submit to his obvious discomfort. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she felt the muscles in his back relaxing. He sat perfectly still, arms unmoving, but Ginny could tell the difference. He may not have been able to respond physically, but that desperately sad part of him recognised and appreciated her gesture. Ginny felt tears falling from her face and dripping onto his neck. After a long moment, she felt him pull away slightly, and she drew back, one hand still lingering on his arm.

"T-thanks," he muttered hoarsely, pulling himself together with a visible effort. Ginny watched sadly as the barriers came back up again, and the mask of control slid back over his face. It felt different though, this time – now that she knew it was only a mask.

Victor cleared his throat, scrubbing his face roughly with one hand. "I apologise if – yesterday – I offended you, picking up your diary." His voice was gruff, almost harsh sounding, but Ginny didn't notice as the outside world came crashing in, shattering their moment of intimacy.

The diary.

Viktor was watching her closely, seemingly aware of her distress, and with a monumental effort, Ginny forced a feeble smile onto her face. That was part of her past. "It was nothing," she gasped out. "I'm s-sorry that I over-reacted."

Viktor paused for a second then nodded quietly. Ginny felt gratitude washing over her again at his silent understanding. There was another long moment of silence, but it was not an uncomfortable one. Viktor seemed used to his own thoughts for company, and Ginny certainly had enough to think about.

After a while, she cleared her throat, determined to change the mood. "Well," she began brightly. "That was certainly some morning." Viktor nodded in agreement, but seemed utterly unfazed by the startling sequence of events. Trying to get a response out of him, she continued. "I guess that it'll be detentions all round though – when Professor Dumbledore finds out."

Viktor froze, his impassive face cracking into a look of absolute despair. He staggered to his feet, swaying slightly. Ginny watched in horror as the blood drained from his face.

"Dumbledore," he choked out hoarsely. "Must report to Dumbledore. Now."

Stumbling toward the door, he tore it open and shot through, the door slamming shut behind him. From across the room, Ron and Hermione's heated discussion came to an abrupt end as they stared in astonished silence at Ginny.

She returned their stare, her mind whirling with only one question.

What had she said?


	5. Fracture

Chapter 5 – Fracture

Sighing, Albus Dumbledore reached for a Lemon Sherbet, but found little consolation in the sharp-tasting sweet. He leaned back from the Pensieve on his desk, stricken with uncharacteristic indecision by the memories contained within. When asked, several of the onlookers outside the Potions classroom had eagerly volunteered their memories. Some were clearly excited by the violent events, while others seemed disturbed.

Both reactions were entirely understandable, he thought as he straightened his back wearily. Whilst minor scuffles were to be expected at any school, particularly one where magic was so readily at hand, the confrontation between the Slytherin and Gryffindor Second Years was entirely different.

Poppy Pomfrey had appeared torn between outrage and intrigue at the precision and severity of the injuries inflicted on Draco Malfoy and Gregory Goyle. Despite her magical expertise in Healing, both students would be in for a prolonged stay in the Hospital Wing. Mr Malfoy's arm, she had grimly informed him, would never be quite the same again, and the sullen Goyle would be even less likely to speak in future given the extent of the injury to his vocal chords.

Sighing, Albus settled back into his chair, his fingers steepled together thoughtfully. In retrospect, it should have been obvious that bringing a highly trained Unspeakable, however young, into a school environment would have ended like this. Minerva McGonagall's words from earlier in the week echoed in his mind uncomfortably.

_You make the boy sound like some kind of – dangerous animal, Albus._

At this point in time, the elderly Headmaster would have given a considerable amount of Galleons if that were the case. Phoenix was many things, but there was nothing animalistic about the way he had taken apart two students this afternoon. It had been the calculated, intentional application of overwhelming violence with no discernable trace of emotion. Phoenix – right now, Dumbledore could hardly bear to think of him as _Harry_ – had intended to incapacitate the attackers as efficiently as possible with no regard for the injuries he had inflicted.

Eyes unfocused, Dumbledore sagged in his seat as a fresh wave of overwhelming guilt washed over him. What had they done to turn the sweet-natured toddler he remembered into a remorseless killer? How could he have allowed it to happen? What business had he bringing such a person into his school?

A low, musical trill disturbed him from his increasingly bitter thoughts and the old wizard smiled slightly as he felt his tension ebb away.

"Thank you, Fawkes," he murmured, looking affectionately at the fiery coloured Phoenix, who trilled again in response.

Soothed by the faithful Phoenix's magic, Dumbledore regained his usual equanimity. It was, after all, not the boy's fault that he had been trained to respond in that manner. What was required now was for the disciplined soldier to be introduced to a young wizard called Harry Potter.

_Perhaps_, mused Dumbledore, stroking his beard absently, _perhaps I should take-_

A forceful knock at the door disturbed his thoughts, and he looked up to see the subject of his thoughts stride into the room with quick, stiff movements. Frowning slightly at the uninvited entrance, Dumbledore felt his heart turn to ice as he looked closely at the young man stood rigidly to attention in front of his desk.

Harry – Dumbledore vowed silently to never address him by any other name – was as immaculately dressed and superficially controlled as usual. Or so he appeared at first glance. Meeting the boy's forthright gaze, Dumbledore's heart went from ice to fire in an instant as he saw the barely restrained misery in his green eyes.

Harry looked as if he had committed the most unimaginable crime, and his entire being vibrated with shame, guilt and recrimination. Opening his mouth to speak, Dumbledore was interrupted by Harry's quivering, low voice.

"Professor, I regret to inform you that I-" he swallowed thickly, "I have compromised the mission this afternoon." Harry bowed his head, clearly overwhelmed with shame. "I am, of course, ready to receive your punishment for this."

For a long moment, Dumbledore sat frozen, caught between shock and humour. Far from being guilty over the violence he had used, it appeared that Harry was expecting punishment solely for endangering his mission. He stared down at the desk, fighting an inappropriate smile, then glanced up at Harry, knowing that his eyes would reveal his amusement.

What he saw killed the twinkle in his eyes in a second. Harry was kneeling on the floor, head down, arms extended, holding out his wand towards the Headmaster. The room was filled with a deathly hush, and after a moment,

Harry looked up, confusion in his eyes.

Clearing his suddenly thickening throat, Dumbledore managed to croak out, "Harry, what do you expect me to do with that?"

Starting at the use of his birth-name, Harry paused for a second, eyes clouded. Placing the wand on the floor in front of him, he unbuttoned his shirt with quick movements, laying it carefully next to the wand. Looking directly at the Headmaster's piercing eyes, he lifted one hand in front of his face, murmured softly, and moved the hand downwards towards his waist.

Watching closely, Dumbledore was unsurprised to see the lightning-bolt scar appear on his forehead. He had suspected that the boy had been taught a Glamour Charm to conceal his identifying feature. As Harry's hand moved downwards over his impressively muscled chest, the elderly wizard's breath caught in his throat.

Harry's chest and arms were covered in a thick patchwork of curse scars. Some were faded and ancient, whilst others looked fresh and painfully raw. Dropping his gaze again, Harry picked up the wand and held it out towards the astonished Headmaster, clearly expecting Dumbledore to make the connection.

Dumbledore did, and there was a sharp crack as the temperature plummeted in the room, ice snaking across the windows. Fawkes squawked in surprise and Harry's head shot up, bright eyes fixed on the suddenly furious wizard.

Without being aware of it, Dumbledore found himself stood up, towering over the young man. His head was pounding painfully, the blood racing through his veins as he took in the full consequences of his decision eleven years ago.

Taking in the intimidating aura of magical energy surrounding the ancient wizard, Harry's eyes flickered warily, muscles tensing as he coolly evaluated the situation. Slumping into his chair again, Dumbledore covered his face with a trembling hand, forcing himself to be calm again. Reluctantly dragging his gaze to Harry's face, he was saddened to see the calm acceptance of his rage; the total absence of fear.

Whilst Albus didn't make a habit out of purposefully intimidating his students, he knew full well the effect that his powerful aura had on others if his normal control slipped. Many grown men had cowered before him, but this twelve-year old boy simply regarded him cautiously, ready for anything. Blinking back a prickling heat in his eyes, Dumbledore took a moment to compose himself before speaking, careful to keep his voice calm and movements gentle.

"Harry, please put your shirt back on and sit down," he managed, alarmed by the unsteady note in his voice. Blinking in confusion, Harry paused for a second then slipped his shirt back on, picking his tie up and deftly refastening it while he sat on the indicated chair. A fresh wave of sadness swept over Albus as he took in the rigid, coiled pose of the young wizard. Harry seemed to be expecting that his punishment would be even more severe than the horrific one he had suggested a moment ago.

Clearing his throat, he struggled for composure as he spoke slowly and clearly. "Harry, we will speak further about your," his voice faltered, "injuries, once I have had time to reflect on the matter. Rest assured, however, there will be no punishment of that nature – not ever – whilst you are under my care."

Something indistinct flashed briefly across Harry's face for a moment. It passed too quickly for Dumbledore to make it out, but he felt it looked a lot like relief, and his heart twisted again. A sharp pain distracted him, and he looked down in puzzlement to see shards of glass from a decorative paperweight sticking out of his hand. Vanishing them in a moment, he considered the injury dazedly – he hadn't been aware of even holding the glass bauble.

Turning his attention back to Harry, who watched impassively, his eyes taking in every detail, he continued in the same measured tones.

"You should also know that I am unconcerned about any jeopardy you may have placed your – mission in this afternoon. We must, however, discuss the events that took place, in particular your actions."

Watching Harry narrowly, Dumbledore saw a look of polite confusion slide over the young man's features. He spoke for the first time since his entrance. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Professor." His voice was low, but vibrated with tightly controlled emotion.

Dumbledore blinked – he had not expected such passion from the composed boy. He leaned back again, fighting another inappropriate smile that was threatening to break out over his face. Minerva was forever scolding him over his tendency to make light of serious matters. In this case, Albus felt justified. Harry's exposure to normal student life was clearly having the desired effect. He wondered idly which student had managed to penetrate the reserved young wizard's defences so quickly.

His amusement quickly faded as he considered the implications of Harry's words. "No Harry," he replied quietly. "I'm sure you don't understand. That doesn't make it any less serious, I'm afraid."

Pausing at Harry's blank, uncomprehending look, he sighed heavily, unsure how to explain it in terms that Harry would understand. "Perhaps it would be easier to show you," he mused aloud, pushing the heavy Pensieve across the desk.

Harry's eyes darkened with understanding. "You wish to show me a memory." It wasn't a question, merely a statement of fact.

Albus nodded, noting to himself with the automatic reflex of a long-time teacher that Harry was a very bright and perceptive young man. Perhaps, he considered, this would be less painful than he had feared. He watched as Harry stood up stiffly, hands unconsciously straightening his uniform as he calmly awaited further instructions. _Then again, maybe not._

Stirring the memory idly with the tip of his wand, he gestured for Harry to come closer. "The memory, as I'm sure you have guessed, it taken from the witnesses to the unfortunate confrontation outside the Potions classroom. It is a composite of three students' recollections, so as to ensure complete coverage of events."

Harry nodded quickly, looking slightly impatient. "As is standard practice where possible, Sir," he commented in a bored tone.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. Unlike other Professors at the school, he never minded being challenged by precociously bright students. Indicating for Harry to do the same, he extended his fingers towards the rippling surface of the memory. "We will watch the complete memory first before reviewing the key points," he stated briskly.

From the surface of the Pensieve, ghostly figures emerged to stand in the centre of the office. They solidified, taking on the appearance of the students present earlier, but the office surroundings remained intact. Catching Harry's curious expression, Dumbledore murmured, "I only wish to focus on the people, not the place."

As they stood watching the memory from the perspective of the onlooking students, Albus kept his eyes fixed on Harry, keen to see any hint of a reaction. Curiously, the only trace of emotion he could detect in Harry occurred not during the fight, but immediately prior to it.

As Draco Malfoy raised a threatening hand towards the fiery Miss Weasley, he noted a distinct flare of anger in Harry's eyes. Intrigued, he waited impatiently for the memory to play out.

As the other Harry ruthlessly dispatched the two Slytherins, Harry's expression remained detached. Head cocked to one side, he looked as if he actually appreciated the opportunity to review his fighting form, Dumbledore noted in annoyance.

However, as the Gryffindors strode off, Albus observed the protective way that the memory Harry had clutched Ginny Weasley close to his side with interest. Glancing at the real Harry, he was dumfounded by the soft expression on Harry's face. It was doubtful that Harry himself was even aware of it, but Albus felt certain that he now knew precisely who had begun to thaw out Harry's emotional reserve.

The memory drew to an end, and Dumbledore froze it before it began to replay. Looking at Harry's calm face, he took a moment to gather himself before doing what he needed to. This was going to be every bit as difficult as he had feared.

Restarting the memory with a silent flick of his wand, he let it play until the memory Harry arrived, lingering at the outskirts of the crowd. Freezing it, he walked closer to the unmoving figure, looking closely at his face. Harry's still face revealed his emotions in a way that would have escaped attention had it been mobile.

"Harry," he said mildly, catching the young wizard's attention. He looked over at Dumbledore, his face contorting for a second in a look of annoyance at the elderly wizard's repeated use of his birth name. Albus noted his expression and nodded internally. Excellent – just what he had been hoping for.

"Harry," he repeated, gesturing for the boy to move closer. Stiffly, Harry strode over, following Dumbledore's eyes towards the frozen face of his memory twin. His lip wrinkled in a fleeting expression of disgust at the obvious play of emotions on the memory Harry's face.

"How were you feeling then, Harry?"

Harry looked intently at Dumbledore, his face betraying uncertainty for the first time. "Feeling, Sir?" he asked, his voice catching on the word.

"Yes Harry," Dumbledore replied calmly. "I know," he continued quickly as he saw the dismissive shift in Harry's eyes, "that your training encouraged you to ignore emotion, but I feel that it is key to you understanding your actions."

Gritting his teeth, Harry looked visibly rattled as he ground out, "As you wish, _Sir_." Dumbldore's answering grin at the evident sarcasm seemed to irritate him further, and his cheeks flushed darkly.

There was a low murmuring from the portraits on the wall, and Dumbledore saw Phineas Black'simage stalk behind the chair in his portrait, eyes glaring up at the blackened hole that bore testament to Harry's last visit to the office. Unconsciously rubbing the fading bruise on his wrinkled hand, Dumbledore merely nodded at Harry, waiting him out silently.

In the sky over Hogwarts, darkening clouds roiled and the first few drops of rain pattered quietly at the office windows.

Eyes narrowed, Harry shifted his attention to his silent image, casting a quick look over the still face. "He looks – conflicted," he admitted, dragging each word out of his chest with an effort. "He looks as if he is unsure how to proceed."

Noting Harry's deliberate use of the second person, Dumbledore pressed onwards without comment, letting the memory play on until the image of Harry was forcing his way through the crowd towards Draco Malfoy, who was raising a fist in Ginny Weasley's direction. Freezing it again, he said simply, "And now?"

There was a low rumble of thunder from outside the window, and the plinking sound of raindrops grew louder.

Harry looked at his image, flushed darkly and hung his head, unable to meet his memory version's eyes. After waiting for a moment, Dumbledore prompted quietly, "He looks angry to me, Harry." Without looking up, Harry nodded quickly. "I was," he replied, so quietly that Albus almost missed it.

"What made you so angry, Harry?" Dumbledore strove mightily to keep a look of triumph from being revealed at Harry's change from _he _to _I_."

Harry's dark face was momentarily illuminated by a flash of lightning from outside. He looked – afraid. "Me," he whispered hoarsely. "I was angry at myself for endangering the mission. I should have moved on, left them to fight." He hung his head still further. "I don't know why I didn't," he admitted painfully.

Cautiously moving closer, Dumbledore debated for a moment about placing a comforting hand on Harry's shoulder. His hand reached out, then wavered as a low hiss arose from the paintings, and fell back again. "I think, perhaps, Harry," he began slowly, pausing at the involuntary flinch Harry made at the sound of his name. "Perhaps you _would_ have moved on, if it had not been for one person."

Harry shoulders slumped still further. His face was cast into shadow by the rapidly darkening sky, hiding his expression. "Ginny," he said tonelessly.

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, Miss Weasley," he agreed. "Why…" He let the question trail off, waiting patiently.

Harry stepped forward, coming back into the flickering light from the candles. His eyes were wide and unfocused, recalling the events of earlier. "I didn't understand," he admitted, his voice as distant as his expression. Dumbledore stood perfectly still, aware that Harry was talking to himself more than anyone else.

"She must have known she couldn't beat _him_-" Harry jerked his head contemptuously towards Draco Malfoy. "But she still did it – why? It makes no sense." His voice dropped still further, until Dumbledore could barely make out the hushed whisper.

"She was – brave. Fearless. That's not what I was told – how they should act. Civilians." He spoke in an awestruck, gentle voice, totally unlike his normally brisk mode of speech.

Albus Dumbledore felt a tear trickle into his long white beard as he contemplated this poor, lost child. For all of Harry's undoubted deadliness, power and discipline, he was unable to understand the very basic motivations that made one sibling wish to defend another.

"They are family, Harry – Ginny and Ron. That's what families do."

Harry stood silent for a long time, thinking this over carefully. He looked up at the tall wizard, regarding him gravely. "It is?" He rubbed absently at his eyes, then looked in amazement at the wetness that had transferred to his hand.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Dumbledore turned away, letting the memory play out a few moments more. Swallowing uneasily, he paused it again at the point where Harry's hand had interrupted the blow that Draco Malfoy had aimed at Ginny's face.

"He would have hurt her." Harry voice rang out unprompted, a note of steel entering it for the first time. "Would you have preferred that?"

Turning around, Dumbledore regarded the dark, flushed expression on Harry's face without comment. Harry's eyes were narrowed, filled with a cold green fire. "No Harry, of course not," he replied calmly. "The question is – why didn't you?"

Harry's mouth opened, but no words came out. Closing it with a snap, he glared at Dumbledore with hatred. "I know what you're doing," he spat out. "And it won't work."

"Oh?" murmured Dumbledore genially. "Why is that, Harry?"

"Stop calling me that!" The room fell silent as the harsh words echoed around the dusty chamber. The thick tension was underscored by a long, low rumble as the storm overhead raged unchecked.

Dumbledore crossed to the window, looking out at the howling torrent. "You know," he continued conversationally, nodding at the storm outside. "It's not necessary to do this to prove your point."

The sudden intake of breath told Albus that Harry had heard, and understood his comment.

"You _know_?" Harry sounded suddenly much younger.

"That you are a level four Elemental? Oh yes," replied Dumbledore unconcernedly. "I know a great deal about you, Harry." He turned to look directly at the astonished young man. "A great deal."

"_They_ told you. The Untouchables." Harry's voice was cold and hard, devoid of feeling once more, and Albus shivered internally at the desolate tone.

"They were good enough to send me reports detailing all aspects of your training." His eyes flickered to the scarred skin visible above the open neck of Harry's shirt. "Almost all aspects."

Harry flushed, one hand flying up to pull the shirt firmly closed. He caught himself, forcing his hand back downwards, but his head hung down, staring at the floor.

"Would it have made a difference?" The words were so low and indistinct that Dumbledore had to spend a moment working them out. Harry looked up with red-rimmed, burning eyes. "If you had known about – would it have made a difference?"

The candles flickered wildly, and a streak of lightning split the sky outside as Dumbledore's face darkened in fury. "If I had known about the methods of punishment the Untouchables used, it would have made a great difference indeed."

Harry nodded almost imperceptibly. His eyes shifted to the window, regarding the increase in the raging storm outside, then back to Dumbledore again. His lip twitched slightly. "It's not necessary to do that to make a point, _Professor."_

Taken aback, Albus stared at Harry blankly for a second, then a low chuckle escaped his lips. "Ten points to Gryffindor, Mr Potter. Alas, I am but a lowly level three Elemental. However, that does not answer my question about Miss Weasley."

Harry sighed softly, the relaxed sound at odds with his rigid posture. "You don't give up, do you?" The elderly Professor made no reply.

"I couldn't let him." Harry's voice was harsh and guttural, tight with barely suppressed anger. "I couldn't let him hurt her – not while I could prevent it." He muttered something else too low to be made out, but Dumbledore understood him perfectly.

It appeared that little Ginny Weasley had just got herself a very powerful protector.

Regarding Harry's hunched back cautiously, Albus debated internally whether he should continue. He was unsure of Harry's response but felt certain that, regardless, he needed to break through his reserve.

"Harry," he whispered tentatively. The muscles bunched in Harry's shoulders, but he remained silent. Taking slow step forward, Dumbledore spoke more firmly. "Harry. Let us continue."

Harry whirled round, and for a second, Dumbledore felt his heart freeze. He stiffened, hand instinctively reaching for his wand. Harry's eyes flickered, acknowledging his actions, but his shoulders slowly lowered. Dumbledore let out a low breath, unaware until then that he had been holding it.

"Very well." Harry's face was granite-hard, his eyes flinty and dangerous.

Swallowing, Albus continued. "Look at the memory, Harry. This time, look at the others – the onlookers. What do you see?"

Turning toward the silent figures clustered around the room, Harry walked around slowly, staring intently at the crowd of students surrounding the fight. He paused at the frozen figure of a tall Fourth Year boy, who was caught mid-cheer. "He looks pretty pleased about it," he muttered.

Dumbledore smiled faintly.

Moving on, Harry slowed further, stopping several times to look closely at several students. He stared into their eyes as if attempting to read their minds, and Dumbledore made a mental note to see if the boy had received any Legillimancy training. He stumbled to a halt in front of two First Year students. A small, sandy haired boy clutched onto the arm of a dark haired girl. Her face was turned away, buried in his shoulder, but his expression was clear and unequivocal.

"He looks – scared," Harry whispered brokenly. "Terrified." He turned to look at Dumbledore, eyes wide, trembling slightly.

"Of me?"

Dumbledore nodded silently. He watched as Harry lowered his gaze to look at his blood-stained hands. Regarding them intently, Harry flexed his calloused fingers, bunching them into fists. His knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists tightly, the trembling spreading across his whole body. Sinking to his knees, his voice was an anguished cry for help.

"What _am_ I? What have they made me?"

Dumbledore stood transfixed, unable to act. Too late, he realised that he should have enlisted Minerva's help before starting out. _Silly old fool_, he chastised himself. He simply hadn't expected Harry to make the intuitive leap so quickly.

"I'm a monster, aren't I?" Harry's flat, desolate voice shattered Dumbledore's indecision. He crossed quickly to Harry, dropping to his knees in front of him.

"You are _not_ a monster, Harry. Do you hear me, Harry?"

Harry's head whipped up, eyes wild and ferocious. "Don't call me that!" A silent tear welled up and began to make its way down his cheek. "He's dead, don't you get it? He was too weak and had to die!"

Throwing caution aside, Dumbledore reached out, gripping Harry's shoulders firmly. Harry's arms shot out, knocking the elderly wizard backwards across the floor. Enraged, he shot to his feet, advancing on Dumbledore.

Lighting forked and flared outside, bathing the room in short, blinding bursts of light. Thunder growled and roared almost continuously, but Harry's ferocious growl rose effortlessly above it.

"My name is Phoenix, do you hear me? Not Harry, Phoenix!"

Pushing himself into a sitting position with an aching arm, Dumbledore fixed the enraged young man with a look that would have melted a lesser wizard.

"No," he said firmly. "Your name is Harry James Potter."

"No!" Harry's voice was a feral growl. The windows crashed open, and lightning streaked in, gathering into writhing balls in Harry's outstretched hands as he glared down at the prostrate Headmaster. From his position on the floor, Dumbledore had enough time to reflect that the Unspeakables had, for once, been less than accurate in their report - Harry was at least a level five Elemental – before the lightning boiled over in Harry's hands and arced towards him.

Instinctively, Dumbledore's shield flickered on, struggling to repel the fierce lightning that coiled and spat over its surface. Lifted to his feet by the power of his magic, his eyes remained fixed on Harry's. The young man's face was white with shock – he had evidently not intended to attack – but the lightning kept pouring in the windows and overloading his control.

Phineas Black dived for the safety of the adjacent portrait as a stray bolt of lightning incinerated his picture. The tall, book-lined shelves burst into flame as multiple lightning strikes smashed into the dry, ancient, texts. Shards of glass from the windows showered the room, embedding themselves deeply into the solid oak door, and the heavy furniture was tossed across the floor as if made from matchsticks.

Outlined by a glowing ball of energy, Albus Dumbledore drew deeply upon his ancient magic and fought to contain the flow of energy from the storm, hoping desperately that Harry would be able to regain control. Slowly, the storm subsided and the crackle of lightning faded, the sky clearing.

Panting, Harry looked dazedly at his hands in shock and disbelief. His lip quivered as he looked at the exhausted Headmaster supporting himself on an overturned table, and the iron mask of self-sufficiency melted away to reveal a lonely and frightened twelve year-old boy. Crumpling to the floor, harsh, wracking sobs shook his body uncontrollably.

"W-What am I," he moaned brokenly. "What a-am I?"

Levering himself upright, Dumbledore was preparing to make the slow, painful journey towards the distraught young man when the creaking of the battered door and a sharp intake of breath alerted him to the presence of another person.

Stood frozen in the door was the tiny, red-headed figure of Ginny Weasley. Her face was chalky white, her lip trembling as she took in the scene of devastation. Her eyes fixed on Harry's huddled figure on the floor and something in them _shifted_. Her head snapped round to stare directly at Dumbledore, who found himself confronted with a pair of hot, angry-looking, glaring brown eyes.

"What have you _done_ to him?"

Momentarily at a loss for words, Dumbledore felt the uncomfortable sensation of being skewered as he ruefully considered that perhaps he _was_ getting too old to deal with two remarkably forceful young students in one day. He opened his lips to frame a reply, when Harry's hoarse whisper captured their attention.

"What _am_ I?"

Heedless of the broken glass, Ginny flew across the room towards Harry, throwing her arms tightly around him. Dumbledore watched in astonishment as Harry allowed himself to be gathered into her tight embrace without a murmur, then swallowed as the flaming brown eyes met his gaze again.

"You heard him Professor – _tell _him!"

Responding to the urgency in her voice, Dumbledore crossed quickly to the huddled children, crouching down awkwardly in front of them. He reached out a hand towards Harry, then hesitated, looking at Ginny. He felt absurdly as if he were asking for permission. Ginny nodded tightly, and Dumbledore gently placed a hand under Harry chin. Ignoring his flinch, he slowly lifted the boy's head up until he could see the teary, cloudy green eyes looking back at him.

"What am I, Professor?" Harry's voice was scratchy and raw, his eyes filled with desperation. Dumbledore paused, mindful of his audience, then shook his head slightly and spoke in a clear, firm voice.

"You are Harry James Potter, son of Lilly and James Potter, of Godric's Hollow. You-"

A quickly stifled gasp interrupted him, and a small, trembling hand gently pushed his aside, curling around his shoulders to help Harry sit upright. Stepping back, Dumbledore watched as Harry, clutching desperately onto Ginny's arm for reassurance, looked directly at her. As the two young students stared silently at each other, Dumbledore felt for a moment as if he were witnessing a private moment, his neck blushing with embarrassment.

"What – _who_ am I?" Harry's voice was stronger now, his independent spirit reasserting itself, but there was a softness in his voice when he looked at Ginny that spoke of tectonic shifts taking place underneath the surface.

Ginny's tiny, delicate fingers gently traced the outline of the jagged scar that stood out on his forehead. Starting, Harry lifted his hand as if to recast the Glamour Charm, but Ginny quickly captured it with her other hand. Meekly allowing her small hand to halt his much larger one, Harry gazed openly at Ginny, his face echoing his earlier question.

"You are Harry James Potter, son of James and Lilly Potter. I've seen their photos, and there is no doubt about it."

Harry's eyes filled with tears as he nodded reluctantly. "I'm – I'm told I look like my father," he murmured softly.

Ginny giggled and nodded, her hand resting on his cheek. "You do. But you have-"

"-my mother's eyes," Harry whispered wonderingly.

Ginny nodded silently, her own eyes gleaming. "Hello Harry – nice to meet you." Slipping an arm around his waist, she endeavoured to lift him to his feet. A faint smile crossed his face, and Harry sprung to his feet, lifting her effortlessly with him.

Turning to Dumbledore, who was watching him carefully from his perch on the upturned table, Harry flushed as he took in the damage around them. "Professor-"

Albus lifted a hand quickly, cutting Harry off. After the revelations about Harry's treatment – or mistreatment – at the hands of the Unspeakables, he was in no mood to accept any apologies about trivial matters of decoration.

"No need, Harry – believe me."

Taking a deep, shuddering breath out, Harry nodded, drawing himself upright again – although Dumbledore noted with amusement that his arm was still firmly curled around Ginny Weasley's waist.

"I guess – I had better get used to that name," he said more calmly, a note of wry amusement in his voice.

Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, smiled back in return. "Indeed you should," he replied in his usual calm, clear voice. "After all, you are Harry Potter."

"Bloody hell!"

Dumbledore whirled round at the sudden interruption, groaning aloud as he saw the wide-eyed faces of Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger staring back at him.

He sighed heavily, at once feeling every one of his hundred and eleven years. "Quite right, Mr Weasley. Bloody hell indeed."


	6. Questions

Chapter 6 – Questions

As a student who prided herself on knowing the answer to most questions posed, Hermione Granger found herself in a most unusual, and uncomfortable, position. The truth was that the last two weeks had raised many questions, and for once, her beloved library could not provide any answers.

Rubbing her sore eyes tiredly, she slammed the cover of the book she had been reading shut with more vigour than intended. Without turning, she could feel Madame Pince's sharp eyes boring into her back, but decided to ignore her. After all, she was fairly certain that her patronage of the library kept the dusty old librarian in a job.

Scowling down at the large book in front of her, she considered venting her frustration by hurling the offending volume across the library, but regardless of the need, she simply couldn't do it. Besides, if Ron caught her doing _that_ he would probably think that she was under the Imperious Curse, or something. Still, she considered idly, it might prompt him to realise that there was more to her than a walking encyclopaedia.

Stifling a yawn, she glanced at the clock on the wall. She had missed dinner again, and she still had the final roll of parchment on her Transfiguration essay to do for next week. Still, one of the benefits of having a well-organised mind was being able to take a night off once in a while. And it wasn't as if this particular problem was going to solve itself any time soon.

Scooping up the heavy book, she trudged wearily back to the shelves, sliding it back into the correct position. Frowning, she quickly rearranged a few other books that had been incorrectly re-shelved. Honestly, what was it with these people? This particular section of the library was one of the more popular ones, but still – didn't they realise that incorrect replacement simply made the next person's life harder? Probably not, she admitted to herself wryly.

Scanning the rows for any other alphabetical transgressions, her eyes flicked lightly over the titles, most of which contained the same name. The same name which had made her miss dinner and which was also responsible for the unanswered questions and the nagging headache she could feel coming on. _Harry Potter._

The book she had just abandoned - _Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived or urban myth?_ – had been just as useless as the others for her purposes. The simple fact was that virtually nothing was known about what had happened to the baby who had defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Ironically, Hermione herself was probably more qualified than most to write a book on the subject given recent events.

Her hand lingered on the spine of _Whatever Happened To Harry Potter?_ – the key question that she herself wanted an answer to. It had been two weeks since her and Ron had burst into Professor Dumbledore's office, chasing Ginny, and, frustratingly, no-one was talking about it. In fact, no-one seemed _able _to talk about it. Her, Ron and Ginny had been sworn to secrecy by an unusually grave-looking Headmaster and a typically stern looking Professor McGonagall. And as for Harry Potter himself – well, he had his own problems…

No, she decided, tossing her head defiantly – if she wanted answers to her questions she would have figure them out herself. Sinking back into her favourite chair, she pulled a thick sheaf of parchment towards her. Inhaling the clean scent of fresh parchment – a secret love of hers – she inked her quill and began to write.

_Questions to be answered:_

That was it – a list. Just what was needed. Whenever things got too much, Hermione always found solace in a neatly organised list. It helped set her world in order. Ron had once jokingly asked if she wrote out a list telling her how to get dressed, then had blushed bright red for some reason. Boys were a mystery that she hadn't quite figured out yet – although she had a sneaking suspicion that with boys, the simplest answer was usually the right one. Still, back to work.

_Where has HP been for the past eleven years?_

She paused, considering. There were several clues that could help answer this question. Wherever he had been, he had clearly received training in unarmed combat. She shuddered slightly as she recalled the fight that day. And having seen the chaos in the Headmaster's office, he clearly had some powerful magical abilities. And then, there was the weather – but he couldn't be responsible for _that_, could he?

Realising that she was absently chewing her quill again, she flushed, looking around furtively. Thankfully no-one was looking to witness her shamefully secret bad habit . Addressing herself to the work at hand, she diligently wrote for several minutes, the quiet scratching of the quill the only sound in the deserted library. Satisfied with the results, she picked up the parchment and slowly read it.

_Why is he here, and why now?_

_What are the teachers keeping from us?_

_Why won't he talk about it?_

_How can we help him?_

_What on earth is going on with him and Ginny?_

Each question appeared to raise more further questions than it answered. Professor Dumbledore had suggested that Harry had decided to rejoin normal society, but wished to remain anonymous for now. It was a clever explanation – just what she would expect of the Headmaster – but it didn't make sense. Joining a school one term into the second year, rather than at the start of the first year, was completely illogical. And Harry himself frequently looked as if he wished to be anywhere other than at Hogwarts – well except when he was with one person.

And there were recent events to consider. Granted, there had been no more attacks on students for the last two weeks, but that in itself was suspicious. A secretive, powerful young wizard appears from nowhere, and suddenly the Chamber of Secrets was resealed again? She was missing something there, something that danced on the edges of her consciousness but stubbornly eluded being brought into the light.

Brow furrowing, she looked down the list again. The Headmaster and Professor McGonagall clearly knew more than they were letting on. For a start, their 'punishment' of Harry – or Viktor – sounded more like Muggle therapy. Five hours a week talking to Professor McGonagall in private? Hermione herself would have been perfectly willing to punch all the Slytherins for that kind of treatment.

Of course, Ron thought that it was the most terrible punishment of all. "Spending all your free time with that old bat? Hard luck, mate." She would have chastised Ron severely for his lack of respect had it not been for the faint glimmer of a smile that had tugged at Harry's mouth. Anything that broke through the wall, even for a second, couldn't be that bad.

And that brought her on to the next question. This one, at least, she felt she knew part of the answer to. Harry was, of course, embarrassed by his display of emotion that day in the office – or at least she assumed so. He wasn't revealing much.

Actually, he wasn't even saying much – even by his standards. For the most part, he had retreated back behind his wall, and seemed dead-set on building up the walls as high as possible. Outside of herself, Ron and of course, Ginny, Harry met any attempts to befriend him with an icy, disdainful silence that quickly gained him the reputation of being arrogant. Even within their little quartet, his engagement with them was along certain proscribed lines.

With Ron, he consented to play the occasional, fiercely contested, game of chess. Ron, who prided himself on his chess-playing abilities, had met his match in Harry. The two were so evenly matched that they were currently drawing at five games apiece.

What infuriated Hermione the most was that they seemed to be forming some kind of blokey bond over it all. Ron had quickly established an easy camaraderie with Harry that required little input from Harry himself. For his part, Harry, whilst not actively seeking out Ron's company, appeared perfectly willing to take part in the games and even listen patiently to Ron's endless babble about Quidditch, his brothers and life at the Burrow. His green eyes watched Ron's animated face closely, flickering with interest from time to time – usually when the story involved Ginny.

Most irritating of all was the fact, so far as she could tell, Ron's laid back approach _did_ seem to be helping Harry in slowly, painfully, integrating himself in some aspects of Hogwarts life.

As for herself, she wasn't too sure where she fit in – not an unfamiliar feeling unfortunately. Harry would listen impassively to her talking about the latest spell she had read about, and, from time to time, would make a quiet suggestion that had an annoying tendency of cutting to the heart of her problem. His knowledge of practical spell-craft appeared to be extensive – worryingly so.

Professor McGonagall had alluded vaguely to a 'unique upbringing' that had made Harry ill-prepared for normal wizarding society, but the rigour with which Harry had clearly been drilled in all aspects of practical magic bordered on the obscene. How could he know so much? And who would do such a thing to a twelve year-old boy? Hermione shook her head slowly, feeling her heavy, curly hair brush against her face. Pushing it back in mild irritation – why did it have to be so thick – she felt a rueful smile curl the corners of her lips.

If she were to be completely honest, the real reason for her annoyance was that the only time that Harry was really interested in what she had to say, was when she wasn't talking about magic at all. She had quickly noted that whenever she mentioned her own childhood, or something in the Muggle world, Harry's face became intent and curious. Once, she had even caught him leaning forward to better catch what she was saying.

It made sense, really, she finally admitted, stretching her arms over her head. Ron helped Harry best by introducing him to the normal wizarding world, and she by informing him about the Muggle world. By losing his parents at such an early age, and by virtue of his strange care arrangements – if _care_ was the right word to use – Harry had missed out on learning about both worlds to which he should rightfully have belonged. She was glad to help, of course – it was just strange that the one thing he needed from her was the one thing no-one else at Hogwarts seemed to value.

Mentally ticking off the questions on the list, she came to the last, and most confusing one of all. Ginny. Ever since she had watched Ginny cradling the distraught boy amongst the ruins of the Headmaster's office, she had been aware of a strange, unspoken communication between them. In part, she was glad. Somehow, Harry's arrival had coincided with a complete change in Ginny's previously introverted nature. Ron maintained that she was just returning to what she was normally like, but this smiling, chatty, vivacious Ginny was quite a turnabout. Coupled with the fact that Harry had seemed to have taken on the role of honorary bodyguard for Ginny, the rumours, gossip and open speculation were rife across the school.

For the most part, neither of them seemed to care much about the comments made. Harry, taciturn as ever, simply blanked out the stares, whispers or even the direct questions. He was simply _there_ – somehow slipping away between lessons to be found silently at Ginny's side. Ginny didn't appear to mind this at all – she would smile and greet him, then continue as if he wasn't there. After a while, most of her classmates appeared to accept his presence and would chat away happily, ignoring the tall boy in their midst.

The one time that the attention had become hostile proved to be at the same time memorable, enlightening and disturbing. Four days after the Office Day, as Hermione had taken to calling it, the Slytherins had finally plucked up the courage to try to gain some revenge on Harry, albeit indirectly.

At breakfast that morning, the normal quiet hum of voices and clank of spoons was disturbed by the exaggerated, venomous tones of Pansy Parkinson. "You've _got_ to be kidding me – Krum and _Weasley_?" Two hundred heads shot round as the room fell into an uneasy silence. From her position sat next to Ginny, Hermione could feel the tension radiating through the small girl's body, who refused to turn round.

Glancing uneasily at Harry, Hermione saw his eyes fix searchingly on Ginny, then flick towards Pansy Parkinson, who was stalking towards the Gryffindor table, eyes alight with malice. She was flanked by two burly fourth year girls who appeared to be the barely feminine versions of Crabbe and Goyle. Stopping directly behind Ginny's quivering back, Pansy cast a long, incredulous look at her faded, patched robes, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I mean, we all know that Weasley is hard up for money, but I hardly think that throwing herself at every new wizard is going to help. Who on earth would want to do it with _her_?"

There was an audible intake of breath from the assembled students, and Hermione watched in horror as Ginny's face went from beet-red to chalky white in an instant. For an interminable second, no-one moved. Then Harry did.

The bench scraped harshly again the stone floor as he stood in one fluid motion. Displaying more backbone than Hermione had credited her with, Pansy stood her ground defiantly. After all, what could he do to her? Harry leant forwards, resting his weight on outstretched arms, fists pressing into the table in front of him. He slowly lifted his eyes and looked directly at Pansy. No, Hermione corrected herself, recalling that particular expression in his eyes. He looked _through_ Pansy, cold dead eyes glinting with rage as he appeared to be about to drill twin holes right through her with the force of his glare.

The rest of the hall looked on in fascinated dread as Pansy, unable to meet his intense stare, attempted a sneer which wilted and died on her lips. She flushed red, staring at the floor as faint lines of sweat broke out on her forehead.

Harry did nothing. He said nothing. He just stood, and stared.

The beads of sweat became rivulets. The rivulets became a stream. Pansy Parkinson's jaw began to tremble as her face drained of all colour. A low whimper escaped her mouth, and suddenly Hermione wanted no part of this. Pansy was probably the least liked girl at Hogwarts, but no-one deserved _this_. She tore her eyes away, looking to Ginny for help.

Ginny sat coolly appraising the quivering Slytherin as Harry slowly, remorselessly took her apart with just a look. Finally nodding to herself, she turned and laid one hand gently on Harry's clenched fist. "Enough," she whispered quietly. Harry broke his gaze immediately and sat back down again, picking up his spoon as if nothing had happened.

Letting out a stifled sob, Pansy Parkinson raced blindly from the room, barging several startled students out of the way in her overwhelming desire to escape. As the door slammed behind her, a low, excited buzz arose from the students. Heads bent over the tables, with furtive, scared glances towards the dark-haired boy and the red-haired girl.

Shakily resuming her breakfast, Hermione looked steadily at Harry and Ginny, and was stunned by the fierce, tender expression in their eyes as they shared a long, lingering look, oblivious to the room around them.

After that, no-one dared to speculate about the relationship between Viktor Krum and Ginny Weasley.

Hermione shuddered, rubbing her shoulders absently in the suddenly chilly library. She didn't often dwell on that particular memory, but it did serve to illustrate her final question on the list – just what _was_ going on with Harry and Ginny? Unlike most of the others, she didn't believe that there was anything romantic going on – at least, not in the way that they meant. It seemed more like a mutual agreement or pact, an acknowledgement that each needed the other. There was real emotion there, no doubt, but it was conveyed through glances and gestures rather than words or touches. Hermione found it profoundly moving, and also worrying. She couldn't quite understand it.

Their silent, steadfast connection was nothing like the childish bickering and teasing she shared with Ron – not that _they_ were in any kind of relationship, she hurriedly corrected herself. Instinctively, Hermione knew that this wasn't the usual kind of friendship shared by eleven and twelve year-old children – it seemed too mature, too sincere…

She rubbed her forehead, attempting to dull the building tension within. These sorts of adult thoughts were too difficult, too disturbing. Crumpling up the list, she glanced around, then pulled out her wand, muttering a quiet spell. The dry parchment curled, flames dancing around it as it blackened and fell in upon itself. Carefully gathering up the small pile of ashes, Hermione wrapped them in a handkerchief and stored them in her bag. The list was too dangerous too take any chances with.

Quickly packing up her belongings with practised ease, she nodded a farewell at the dozing librarian, then strode towards the exit. Outside in the deserted corridor, she leaned her head against the cool window, relishing the numbing sensation. The grounds of Hogwarts were shadowed in darkness, the wind whipping the grass into long, undulating patterns and tossing the branches of the trees around with wild abandon.

On impulse, she wrestled with the heavy latch and threw the window open, drinking in the cool night air. The rustling of leaves was louder now, and the faint noises of the night soothed her over-heated brain. From far across the Forbidden Forest, a low, mournful howl rose and fell. After a pause, the eerie howl repeated, more insistently this time, then fell silent.

Hermione shivered again. The wolf seemed to be searching for its pack, with no success. Unaccountably, she was reminded of Harry, the lonely, lost boy who hid his fear behind a crumbling façade of control. Suddenly, she felt profoundly glad that he had Ginny to rely on, whatever it all meant. He may have been putting on a good show, but if there was one thing Hermione Granger knew from personal experience, it was that you could only deny your emotions for so long. No matter how much you tried to rationalise, they would break through in the end.

When Harry finally bowed to the inevitable, Hermione was grateful that he would have someone as fiercely loyal and protective as Ginny Weasley to help him weather the storm. She pulled the window closed with a bang, turning resolutely away from the bleak scene. The storm was coming, and she was certain that more important things than a few ornaments in the Headmaster's office would be broken in its wrath.


	7. Alpha

Chapter 7 – Alpha

Harry ran silently and swiftly through the moonlit forest, hardly disturbing the leaves which blanketed the ground. His breath was calm and even, his eyes bright and fixed on the barely visible path ahead. Back at the castle, the civilians – the _students_ – would be sitting down for dinner. For a moment, he felt an inexplicable longing to be there, sat in his now customary seat next to Ron, listening to the carefree chatter around them. He shook his head, dispelling the image, and picked up his pace.

For a while, he focused his mind of the steady rhythm of his heart, willing his whirling brain to fall back into its disciplined, regular paths. But it was futile. Phoenix, the carefully constructed companion of his childhood years, was gone. Of course, the legacy remained. The skills, abilities and mindset still lingered, but the _identity_ had crumbled and vanished. In retrospect, the fact that it had begun dissolving as soon as he left the direct control of The Unspeakables spoke volumes, but he still missed the simple certainty he had known only a few weeks earlier.

His sharp eyes picked up the faint marks of an animal in a patch of soft ground ahead. Skidding to a halt, he regarded it intently. His body tensed as he recognised the pattern. A wolf, and a large one at that. And there was something else – the paw prints didn't look quite right. He raised his head, sniffing the air. There. A faint scent of something off to the west – something like wolf, but like something else as well. No normal wizard could have picked the scent up, but right now, Harry was far from a normal wizard.

Bolting into motion, he whirled on the spot and hurtled towards the strange scent, filled with a reckless longing for action, for something concrete to take his mind off the troubling question of who he was. He chuckled quietly, the noise low and guttural in his throat. Right now, considering who he was seemed a futile effort.

Twigs crunched as he passed over them, no longer attempting to be silent or graceful. All he cared about was speed, and his body responded as if it were designed to run. The forest surroundings blurred into insignificance as he focused all his senses on chasing down the elusive scent up ahead. He was close now, so close. His lips curled back in an involuntary snarl, exposing white pointed teeth. Soon he would see first hand what was stalking through the forests towards the castle – and then-

His thoughts trailed off as a new sound came to his sensitive ears. Voices. Human voices. One low and rumbling, coming from an extremely large man, and one higher pitched and curiously familiar. Both were unaware of the creature he was stalking, and both were moving directly towards it. Even though his blood was coursing with the thrill of the chase, he was not so far altered that he was tempted to continue.

In one fluid, impossible, movement he leapt high into the air, clearing a fallen tree effortlessly. His body twisted in mid-air, rolling over and changing direction even before he hit the ground. Revelling in his grace and power, he sought out the smallest clear patch of earth to land on, thankful for the benefits that his current form lent.

No man could have executed that manoeuvre. No wizard, no matter how powerful, could have cast a spell quickly enough. But then no wizard would have had the benefit of four paws, a long tail for balance and lightning-fast reflexes either.

His claws extended, finding purchase in the soft ground and he effortlessly propelled his long body forwards, barely slowed by the abrupt change of direction. The voices were much louder now, and he identified the deep tones of the Hogwarts groundskeeper, Rubeus Hagrid. That meant that the higher-pitched voice was probably a student, as some of the professors liked to set detentions in the Forbidden Forest as a deterrent for further misbehaviour. Ron for example, had suffered this fate several times in the past. Harry grinned widely, long tongue lolling out between his sharp teeth. It didn't seem to provide much of a deterrent for Ron though, as just the other day Professor Snape had given him-

His legs stiffened, claws splaying out as he skidded to a halt again. That familiar, higher-pitched voice – it couldn't be – could it?

Ron Weasley rubbed his aching stomach irritably as he swatted at a swarm of gnats circling overhead. It was alright for them, he grumbled silently. They were clearly going to get to eat _their_ dinner, so why did he have to miss his? His expression darkened further. Snape. Or, to put it more precisely, that snivelling greasy-haired ba-

"Ron?" Hagrid's gruff voice interrupted his bitter thoughts. "Are you keeping a look out for any tracks?" Craning his neck back, Ron looked up at the enormous man striding next to him. Hagrid's expression – what little could be seen of it beneath the wild mane of hair and beard – was serious, and Ron nodded quickly.

"Yeah, I'm looking," he replied miserably. "Of course, it would help if I had any bloody idea what I was supposed to be looking for," he muttered to himself.

"Never you mind about that," retorted Hagrid sharply, and Ron flushed with embarrassment. He should have realised that a man with ears as large as dinner plates probably had excellent hearing. He sighed, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, and picked up his pace, trotting to keep up with Hagrid's giant strides.

His stomach rumbled again, more loudly this time and Ron muttered inaudibly, entertaining himself by creating inventive phrases to describe Professor Snape, and trying desperately to keep his mind off the succulent piles of food being consumed right now by his friends. He consoled himself with the thought that it was probably only Ginny eating anyway. Hermione had headed off to the library earlier with a look that spoke of late nights and ink-stained fingers, and Harry had vanished – again.

Ron hunched his shoulders in a vain attempt to keep out the chill wind that cut right through his threadbare robes. At his side, Fang pressed his warm body against him, providing some warmth. Ron patted the huge dog's head consolingly. If there was someone who enjoyed these night-time excursions even less then him, it was probably the boarhound, who kept glancing fearfully at the shadowy trees surrounding them. Perhaps he should have brought Scabbers instead, Ron mused.

"Never mind, boy," he whispered encouragingly. "At least one Weasley's getting to eat." Fang looked up dolefully, unimpressed with his logic, and Ron grinned back. Of course it wasn't just one Weasley getting to eat – no doubt Fred, George and Percy were filling their faces in the Great Hall too. And right now, Mum and Dad were probably sitting down to a delicious dinner in the Burrow. His stomach rumbled complainingly, and punched it irritably. Who knows, maybe even Charlie was sat by a roaring fire roasting great chunks of dragon meat…

A large hand descended on his shoulder, and Ron started guiltily. He had been so lost in his thoughts that he had failed to keep an eye out for any strange animal tracks as instructed. Looking around, he saw nothing on the ground, and looked up at Hagrid questioningly.

The half-giant placed a meaty finger on his lips in a silencing gesture, then pointed towards a large stand of trees to the left. Ron strained his eyes in the darkness, but couldn't make anything out.

"Hagrid-"

"Shhh!"

Screwing up his face, Ron stared even harder, his eyes slowly making out vague details in the gloomy night. He could see the thick trunks of the trees surrounding a large boulder, and further back-

He blinked, stumbling backwards. Since when did boulders move?

A guttural snarl ripped through the silent woods as the shadowy form moved out from under the cover of the trees. It straightened up, standing on two legs like a human – but it was like nothing Ron had ever imagined. The head was that of a wolf, mouth filled with long, wickedly pointed teeth. The body was a monstrous combination of human and animal; covered with thick fur, twisted and misshapen, but still recognisable.

Beside Ron, Fang whimpered piteously, his large body quivering with fear. Ron attempted to pat his head, but his arm seemed frozen in place. His mouth dry, he stared in terrible fascination at the creature which advanced towards them, sniffing at the air hungrily. A heavy weight fell on his shoulder and he almost screamed out loud, realising at the last moment who it was.

Hagrid's eyes glinted with a steely expression that Ron didn't recall ever seeing on the genial groundskeeper's face before. He lifted his right arm up, showing Ron the dull gleam of the crossbow nestled against his side. Silently, he cocked his head, gesturing for Ron to step behind him.

Dumbly, Ron complied, his legs quivering and stiff as he dragged an unresisting Fang with him into the illusory safety of Hagrid's long shadow.

"Now then – what do we have here?" Hagrid's voice was gentle and soothing, sounding as if he were tending to an injured magical creature. "Don't think I've seen a big fella like you before."

Ron stared at Hagrid's broad back. If it weren't for the very real sense of danger, he could have sworn that Hagrid was genuinely interested.

The creature paused in its advance, cocking its pointed head to one side and staring at Hagrid with equal interest. Ron shivered with renewed fear – there was a terrible, human-like intelligence in those eyes which made his heart thud irregularly. The great wide mouth cracked open, exposing the glinting white teeth in a wolfish grin, and Hagrid took a step back.

Mirroring his movement, the creature advanced, sinews tensing as it prepared to attack. From his position behind Hagrid, Ron could see the giant slowly lift the crossbow, pulling back the heavy bow string and sliding a bolt into position. The creature grinned hideously, as if accepting the unspoken challenge, flexing the long sharp talons that served for hands. Hagrid took a long step back, shoving Ron further behind him, and took aim with the crossbow.

As if on cue, the moon sailed out from behind the covering of clouds and the scene was illuminated with a harsh, pale light. The half-giant and the half-wolf stood unmoving, each waiting for the other to make their move. Stifling a sob, Ron held his breath, and felt the forest around him join in the moment of tense silence.

The still night air was abruptly rent with the unmistakable howl of a wolf. The creature started, head swinging towards the sound and a low, answering hiss escaped from its mouth. The large head swung back towards Hagrid, steadfastly aiming the crossbow, and then back towards the source of the howl. Ron chuckled silently and mirthlessly at the obvious confusion it felt.

A louder, more aggressive howl echoed through the trees, this one much closer than before. The creature whirled on the spot, hunting for the source of the noise, and Ron glanced behind himself worriedly. The last thing he wanted was to be caught in the middle-

The forest was plunged into darkness as the moon was obscured by cloud again. Ron froze, his heart turned to stone as his remaining senses strained for information. Just as abruptly, the moon came back into view and Ron, breathing a silent sigh of relief, turned his gaze back towards the clearing.

What he saw made him feel faint. In the centre of the clearing, mid-way between Hagrid and the creature, stood the largest wolf he had ever seen. It stood almost four feet tall at the shoulder, and was covered in thick, black, unruly fur. Ron couldn't get a good look at the wolf's face, as it stood facing the creature, but the tautly muscled body was shaking with fury.

Ron gulped. He didn't know much about wolves, but he did recall that they were fiercely territorial animals. Clearly, this wolf saw the creature as a threat to its pack and was prepared to defend them. Its tail lashed angrily, and a low, aggressive snarl echoed around the clearing. The creature snarled back an angry response and crouched, ready to attack.

It never got a chance. In an instant, the large black wolf had sprung at it, ripping a large chuck of flesh from the shoulder of the creature and sending it spinning across the clearing. Barely touching the ground, the wolf turned and sprang again, hurling itself forwards. The creature howled with pain, but quickly got up, meeting the challenger head on.

In a frenzy of teeth and claws, the two animals rolled and tumbled across the forest floor. They moved too quickly for Ron to make out the details, but he clearly saw the wolf stagger back as the creature's talons scythed across its chest, then recover and sink its fangs deep into the creature's throat.

There was a choking sound, the wet patter of blood and the creature slumped to the ground, breathing raggedly. Surrounding its head, a deepening pool of dark blood spread silently across the ground as its strength ebbed away. It gave one last convulsive gasp, then became still.

Ron craned his neck, edging out from behind Hagrid to get a better view.

"Is it-"

"Shhh!"

The giant groundskeeper walked cautiously towards the unmoving creature. The silent form gave a slight shudder, causing Hagrid to snap up his crossbow, then slowly, silently, it seemed to melt away, reforming into a much smaller and more familiar shape.

Ron gasped, his mouth hanging open. "Is that – human?"

Hagrid nodded grimly. "Werewolf," he said simply. Ron, aware of his mouth still hanging open, closed it with a sudden snap. He moved to Hagrid's side, overwhelmed with curiosity. Crouching down, he looked at the man's still face, shuddering at the grievous injuries inflicted by the wolf. Tentatively, he reached out a trembling hand to close the man's eyes, then withdrew it hurriedly as a low warning growl broke him out of his reverie.

Turning as one, Ron and Hagrid stared at the enormous wolf. It lay slumped on one side, tongue lolling out as it panted loudly. Hagrid's face darkened as he took in the gashes on its chest and side. "He's hurt," he said worriedly, dropping down onto his knees with a thud that nearly knocked Ron over.

Ron crouched down next to him, eyes fixed on the injured animal. "He?" he muttered distractedly. Hagrid nodded without looking away. When he spoke, his voice was filled with awe. "This is the alpha male – the pack leader."

Ron stared wonderingly at the barely conscious wolf. "But – Hagrid?" He paused, licking his dry lips. "We're not in its pack, so why-" His voice trailed off as he watched the wolf's green eyes slowly slide shut. Hagrid's craggy face softened as he moved closer to the unconscious wolf.

"Honestly? I don't know, Ron. I never heard of anything like-"

Hagrid's voice abruptly cut off, and Ron's head whipped up. In front of Hagrid's kneeling form lay the body of a young man with black, messy hair. He wore the tattered remnants of Hogwarts robes and his face was pale and drawn.

"What-"

"Shhh!"

"I'm getting tired of hearing that," murmured Ron as he shifted his position, desperate to get a better look at the comatose student. Hagrid was placing a gentle hand on the boy's neck, checking for a pulse. A relieved sigh told Ron that the boy was in no immediate danger, but his injuries needed immediate medical attention.

The long messy hair, the same colour as the fur of the wolf, obscured his features and Ron could not make out his face. He moved closer still, hoping to get a glimpse of this talented young wizard who was somehow able to change his shape.

Blocking him, Hagrid slid his arms carefully around the unconscious boy and lifted him up, cradling his limp body with surprising tenderness. "Madame Pomfrey," he said gruffly, and strode off.

Gathering up the discarded crossbow, Ron took a last, disbelieving look at the dead man, and raced after Hagrid, whistling for Fang to follow him. Hagrid had reached the edge of the forest by the time Ron caught up. As they hurriedly crossed the Quidditch pitch, Hagrid shifted the boy in his arms, increasing his pace, and the boy's head lolled back, his hair shifting to expose his pale face. The moon shone down brightly, unencumbered now by trees, illuminating the student's forehead and clearly revealing the jagged, lightning bolt scar emblazoned across it.

Ron felt his knees buckle as he looked onto the familiar features of his new friend.

"Harry?"


	8. Hurt

Chapter 8 – Hurt

"I'm not sure I see your point, Albus." Minerva McGonagall's voice was brittle and sharp, a sure sign that she was about to lose her temper. Dumbledore remained silent, but gestured for her to take the seat opposite him. Frowning, the aging witch broke off her relentless pacing and crossed to the chair. Lowering herself down, she stared unseeingly at the book-lined wall, rubbing her forehead absently.

Watching her closely, Albus Dumbledore was struck by how much she had aged in the past few months. The strain of recent events was apparent in the lines etched deeply into her face, and she slumped wearily in her seat, a stark contrast to her normally upright posture.

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his desk, considering his next words carefully. The subject, was, as always recently, Harry Potter. The events in the forest only three nights ago had left them both shaken. It was not just that one of their students, a twelve year old boy no less, had killed a grown man, but the _manner_ in which he had done it had left them both speechless.

Forcing himself to relax back into his heavily padded chair, he kept his voice level and calm in an attempt to defuse the irate Deputy Headmistress.

"Minerva, you have to admit that the power this young man wields is somewhat – disturbing."

Professor McGonagall's nostrils flared in irritation. "His father became an Animagus whilst _he_ was still at school, Albus." She paused, eyes narrowed. "As did I for that matter."

Dumbledore chuckled softly, amused despite the seriousness of the discussion. The half-smile faded as he replied sombrely, "If it were just that, Minerva, I would, of course, understand. But-" His voice trailed off, and the room fell in silence, broken only by the soft chiming of the clock.

Stirring, McGonagall stood up wearily, walking to the window and looking out across the grounds. Outside, it was a glorious spring afternoon, and many students had taken advantage of the weather to sit on the grass chatting animatedly. Minerva felt a heaviness in her heart at the sight. By rights, Harry should be sat out there with all the other Second Year students, but instead he lay insensible in the Hospital Wing, three days after being first admitted.

Turning, she walked slowly back to her chair, determined to make Dumbledore understand. "Albus, I know that Harry is unusually gifted, but isn't that to be expected given his upbringing? Surely _you_, of all people, would understand the burden of his gifts?"

The ancient wizard nodded thoughtfully, pushing his half-moon spectacles further up his long nose with one finger. "Yes, of course Minvera. But at his age I was still a child, with my skills developing. Harry has powers that most adult wizards would envy, and he is so focused, so serious."

He paused, looking unusually grave. "I haven't seen a young man like him since – well, since –"

"Albus Dumbledore, don't you dare compare Harry to – to _him!_" Two bright spots of colour burned on McGonagall's face, and her eyes flashed fire. "They are nothing alike. Nothing."

Dumbledore rocked back in his chair, hands characteristically steepled in front of his face. He looked up, meeting the furious witch's glare with his calm blue gaze. "In creating someone capable of defeating Tom Riddle, I fear, Minerva, that the Unspeakables moulded Harry into his image."

Minerva McGonagall's face went ashen, and she slumped back. "But, he is just a boy, Albus," she whispered brokenly. Tremulously, she looked up at him, eyes suspiciously bright. "His abilities have come at a tremendous cost to him personally." She wiped away a stray tear with the back of one wrinkled hand and sat upright, composing herself once more.

Albus watched quietly, saying nothing, and Minerva looked gratefully at him. How typical of the man, she thought, to not offer sympathy where it wasn't wanted.

Clearing her throat, she patted her hair habitually, checking to see that it was still in the neat bun she always wore. "In our meetings, I have seen a deep anger in Harry – I won't deny that. But he is also haunted by a terrible sadness and sense of isolation. You can't send him away now, Albus – it would destroy him."

She watched breathlessly as the Headmaster sat silently, considering her words. Finally he nodded to himself and reached for a Lemon Sherbet, popping it into his mouth. Leaning forward despite herself, Minerva waited impatiently for the decision she knew he had made.

Finally, he spoke. "So we agree then." He fixed her with his penetrating gaze. "The best place for Harry – is right here."

Minerva released the breath she had been holding unknowingly, and nodded her agreement. "Yes, with his friends."

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, his eyes intense and bright. "Yes – and with us."

The bright afternoon sun cast long, lingering shadows across the walls of the hospital wing as it sank slowly over the horizon. A stray beam of light cut through the silent room, revealing gently sinking motes of dust before warming the pale face of the young man who lay, unmoving, in the only bed.

Perched on top of a heavy oak wardrobe, a great golden phoenix sat watching the scene intently. Its amber eyes swept the room, missing nothing. It leaned forward slightly as a tiny movement caught its attention. On the bed below, the patient was stirring.

Harry's eyes opened slowly, at first unfocused and vacant. He blinked, then his green gaze sharpened and his head jerked forward. Scanning his surroundings, he locked eyes with the phoenix keeping guard. For a long moment, the boy and the bird regarded each other steadfastly, neither backing down. Then the phoenix dipped its head in a gesture that may have passed for a bow and burst into flames, vanishing from sight.

A faint smile crossed Harry's face, and he shifted his position in the bed, sitting more upright. A heavy weight on his lap alerted him to the fact that he wasn't alone, and his face softened as he recognised his companion.

Ginny Weasley sat in a chair pulled close to the bed, her body slumped forward and her head resting on his leg. She was asleep, and her long hair cascaded in fiery ribbons across the white sheets. Harry sat for a moment, seemingly entranced. Realising that her cheek was resting on a roll of parchment, he gently eased the stiff sheet out without disturbing her rest. Glancing at it, he recognised it as a Transfiguration assignment she had been complaining about receiving – when? Yesterday?

Putting the parchment to one side, he stretched carefully, relieving the stiffness in his arms slightly. Longer than a day. More like two – at least. Ginny sighed softly in her sleep, and Harry glanced down again, the smile back on his face. Slowly, he reached out a tentative hand and gently stroked her hair, tucking it neatly behind her ear in an imitation of her habitual gesture. At that moment, anyone could have read plainly the deep affection he felt for Ginny Weasley written plainly across his face.

From her position deep in the shadows of the doorway, Minvera McGonagall shifted restlessly, feeling as if she were trespassing on a private moment. By her side, Albus Dumbledore cleared his throat quietly, alerting Harry to their presence.

Instantly, the soft expression vanished from Harry's face. His scar vanished under a Glamour Charm and his wand was pointed unerringly at the two professors.

"Identify yourselves," he stated calmly, not bothering to raise his voice. Dumbledore stepped forward, with Professor McGonagall a step behind. The Headmaster raised a greying eyebrow.

"You knew there were two of us?" he questioned curiously.

Harry's face was a mask of composure, almost unrecognisable from his unguarded expression. "I could hear your heartbeats," he replied matter-of-factly. "My hearing is – acute."

"I have no doubt of that, Mr Potter," replied Professor McGonagall acerbically. "Just one of your many – talents you have seen fit to keep from us."

Patting her arm in a placating manner, Dumbledore guided her to a pair of comfortable patterned chairs which had appeared out of nowhere. "Now, now, Minvera," he murmured consolingly.

"Now Harry-"

"Before you start, Headmaster, don't you think it would be better to wake Miss Weasley?"

Dumbledore smiled widely towards Professor McGonagall. "Oh, I don't see why, Professor. Fawkes tells me she hasn't been sleeping much here." He hesitated, and his smile broadened further. "And as far as I can tell, Harry here doesn't appear to mind her using him as a pillow – isn't that right, Harry?"

Harry coughed, his pale face flushing slightly. "No, Professor – it's fine." He glanced down at her, speaking in a softer voice. "Has she been here all the time?" He looked up, eyes shifting from one adult to the other.

"Most of the time," replied Dumbledore genially. "Of course, Mr Weasley and Miss Granger have done their turns too." He watched the boy closely as he spoke. "It appears that they were concerned about you."

"As were we all," broke in Professor McGonagall, her face stern, but her eyes betraying her real feelings.

Harry sat still for a moment, clearly thinking deeply about their words. When he looked at them again, he wore a cautious, vulnerable expression. "It feels – strange," he muttered in a low voice. The two professors shifted forward, eager to catch his next words. "Strange – that they care."

There was a long silence then, during which Harry stared steadfastly out of the window and Professor McGonagall shot Dumbledore a meaningful look.

Still looking away, Harry spoke again, his voice harsh and cold. "I take it he's dead then – the werewolf?"

The two teachers exchanged another look behind Harry's back. "Yes," replied Dumbledore simply.

"Good." Harry's voice was remote and harsh, and Professor McGonagall shivered, despite the warmth of the room. "Do you really think that, Harry?" she asked quietly.

Harry turned to look at them, his eyes fierce and blazing. "Why not? He was trying to kill Ron and the groundskeeper – it was fortunate that I came along.

Dumbledore interjected quickly. "We don't doubt your reasons, Harry, and I'm sure both Hagrid and Ron will want to thank you for it-"

"I don't need thanks," snapped Harry, his voice growing louder. Ginny stirred at the noise and he lowered his voice, looking at her. When he spoke again his voice was almost inaudible. "It's my job, that's all." His head hung lower, his eyes closed. He spoke bitterly. "It's what I live for, right?"

"No!"

All three jumped at the new voice. Ginny lifted her head up, face set with determination. "No, Harry, it's not."

Harry glared at her, face contorted with emotion. "How can you say that?" he hissed. Sliding out of bed, he ripped his pyjama top open, sending buttons skittering everywhere. "Look at me!"

"I can see you Harry," bit back Ginny heatedly. "I see you every day. Most days it's all I can do _not_ to look at you." Her face flushed bright red, but she refused to turn away.

Conflicting emotions swam and chased over Harry's face. His eyes betrayed a desperate longing, but he looked away, unable to meet her gaze. Staring at his battered, scratched hands, his eyes narrowed as he saw the blood under his fingernails.

"No, Ginny," he whispered hoarsely. He flung the tattered jacket on the floor. "_Look_ at me."

The scar on his forehead flickered into sight as he wordlessly removed the Glamour Charm and the thick patchwork of curse scars, now overlaid with three long, jagged claw marks, became visible on his chest.

"_This_ is what I am, Ginny – what I was trained to be. I fight. I win. I kill. That's it." He thumped his chest, wincing in pain, and slumped back onto the bed, sitting with his back to the room.

Ginny's face had drained of all colour as she took in the extent of his scarring, but she remained defiant, moving around the bed to sit next to him. Dumbledore stirred as if to interject, but McGonagall shook her head quickly. If Ginny couldn't reach him, no-one could.

"That may be what you were trained for, Harry, but that's not all you are." Ginny's voice was low and filled with conviction. She cupped Harry's face with her hand, forcing him to look at her. His eyes were clouded and dull, his face desolate.

"Harry, ever since you arrived you've been protecting us. First me. Then Ron. Now all of us. If you hadn't stopped that thing, I would have lost my brother and who knows who else? We need you around. _I_ need you around."

Reaching up, Harry gently removed her hand from his face, holding it for a moment whilst staring at her. "I'm dangerous Ginny – can't you see that?" His eyes flicked over to the professors, silently watching. "I should leave," he stated firmly. He stood up, slowly letting Ginny's hand slide from his.

"This," he said, indicating his scarred body. "This is all I know how to be. I don't belong here, with normal people." His eyes slid down to meet Ginny's, who was openly crying now. "Even you."

He took two long steps back, moving away from them all. His eyes were red-rimmed and his body shook with repressed emotion. Ginny stood up, reaching out to him, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Harry," she sobbed.

Harry stood, irresolute, while the two professors held their breath. "I'm sorry Ginny," he croaked finally. "I'm so sorry."

Turning, he launched himself at the nearest window, changing to the great black wolf mid-jump. With an ear-splitting crash, the glass exploded in front of him and he sailed through the gaping hole. In an instant he was lost from view.

The two professors sat frozen, stunned by rapid sequence of events. Only Ginny moved. Screaming Harry's name, she ran to the window, desperate to follow him. Moving with the sudden grace of a much younger man, Professor Dumbledore pulled her back to safety, easily restraining the small girl.

While she sobbed into his chest, still calling for Harry, the elderly professor watched the large wolf racing across the grounds until it was lost from sight amidst the tall trees of the Forbidden Forest.


	9. Brittle

Chapter 9 – Brittle

"Not so full of it are you now, Weasley?"

Lost in her thoughts, it took Ginny a moment to realise the comment was aimed at her. Dazedly, she looked up from her uneaten dinner to see the sneering, malevolent face of Draco Malfoy, flanked, as always by Crabbe and Goyle.

Malfoy had made a miraculous recovery in the three weeks since Harry had left, and once again strutted around the school as it he owned it, grinning smugly the whole time. Curiously, he no longer bothered himself with the petty cruelties he had previously found pleasure in – at least until now.

Breathing deeply, Ginny forced the mask of calm indifference she had carefully cultivated back onto her face. "What do you want, Malfoy?" she asked in a bored voice, looking away as if his answer was of no importance.

Draco leaned in closer, making her recoil instinctively. His sour breath tickled her ear unpleasantly as he whispered, "You don't fool me, Weasley. Your boyfriend Krum is gone, and you don't know what to do about it."

Shoving her chair away from the table, Ginny stood up quickly, facing Malfoy. He backed up a couple of paces, but the smug grin remained firmly fixed on his pale face. Ginny fought desperately for control, her hollow heart thudding unevenly as she kept back the tears with a monumental effort.

Malfoy regarded her closely, and his vicious smile widened as her mask slipped. "Going to cry, Weasley?" Crabbe and Goyle guffawed as he played to the growing crowd around them. "Just face it – you obviously weren't _good _enough," he crowed, his grin becoming leering and suggestive. "He got bored – and you got dumped."

Ginny swayed, fighting a losing battle with her composure. Malfoy's vile suggestions may have been inaccurate, but his words struck at the deep, inarticulate feelings that she had for Harry. Hot, prickling tears stung her eyes and she opened her mouth, not sure what was going to come out.

"Thank you _so_ much for your opinions Draco. We'll be sure to pass them along to Viktor when he returns."

The clear, calm voice of Hermione Granger washed over Ginny like a cleansing breeze, and she gulped with relief as a slim arm slipped comfortingly around her waist.

Malfoy's grin faltered, and his hulking bodyguards cast a nervous look around. "He's not coming back," he spat back, but there was an uncertain note in his voice that made the watching crowd shift and mutter.

"Really Malfoy? 'Cause that's not what he said in his latest letter." Ron's confident, airy voice cut through the chatter effortlessly as he forced his way through the crowd, flanking Ginny on her free side.

The sneer withered and died on Malfoy's thin, pasty face. Now that she could look at him more calmly, Ginny was struck by how ill he still looked. His sallow skin had an unhealthy shine to it, and there were large circles under his eyes. "You don't look so well," she said aloud, without thinking.

Ron chimed in gleefully. "You're right, Gin. Maybe when Viktor comes back, he could help you get back to the hospital wing Malfoy – what do you reckon?"

Malfoy blanched, rubbing his freshly mended arm unconsciously. Many of the crowd were openly laughing at Ron's comments and Malfoy's face flushed as the mood turned against him. "Come on," he snapped to Crabbe and Goyle, turning to walk off. At the edge of the crowd he turned, a hectic light shining in his eyes. "You'll pay for that, Weaslette." He cast a furious look at the suddenly silent crowd. Many of them backed away from the unholy rage they saw in his face. "You all will."

Muttered comments broke out as the doors to the Great Hall slammed shut behind him.

As the crowd drifted away, Ron sidled up to Ginny, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "Alright, sis?" The look of deep concern in his eyes belied the cheery tone he adopted. Ginny took a deep, shuddering breath in, looking from his worried face to Hermione's. For a moment, her façade slipped, and a hint of the misery she felt bubbled up. Then, with a toss of her head, it was gone.

"Of course I am, silly. Like you said, he'll – he'll be back soon anyway." She scrubbed a hand over her red-rimmed eyes and forced a smile onto her face.

"Can't be long now."

Muttering a vague excuse about homework, she wriggled out of their embrace and bolted for the door, only just preventing her walk from becoming a sprint as the silent tears began to trickle down her face.

"You don't believe that, do you? That he'll be back?" Hermione's voice was low and ragged as she glanced up at Ron.

Ron shrugged despairingly. "Dunno. He'd better be though." He stared at the door of the Great Hall as if he could see through it. "She can't keep this up for much longer."

~DP~

His long, silvery robes swept across the cobbled courtyard as Professor Dumbledore strode briskly to the castle doors. Lost in thought, he nodded absently to the students and staff who greeted him as he climbed the main stairs, choosing a direction seemingly at random. Although he cut an imposing figure, he passed largely unnoticed as he roamed the second floor corridors. After three weeks, most of the residents of the castle were used to this new eccentricity, adding it to the considerable list the Headmaster had already acquired.

Behind his placid face, his thoughts were a whirl of bitter self-recrimination. The full extent of how completely he had failed Harry, and by extension James and Lilly, weighed heavily on him, and tormented his dreams. Even if you ignored his decision to place Harry with The Unspeakables – which of course, you could not – his behaviour towards Harry since his arrival at Hogwarts had not been without fault.

His suspicion towards Harry, and his blind belief that a few months at Hogwarts would straighten him out seemed so hopelessly contradictory now. And the worst of it all was that this realisation came too late. Harry was gone. The only glimmer of consolation that he could find was in the persistent rumours that had dogged Hogwarts since his disappearance.

Dumbledore chuckled briefly at his unintentional pun, startling a gaggle of first year girls, who sped away casting mistrustful looks at the elderly Headmaster, stood frozen, as if he too had been Petrified and needed wheeling off to join the other students still lying in the hospital wing.

The Headmaster barely noticed – he was caught up in the memories of the whispers and gossip about the great black wolf that stalked the grounds of the castle at night-time. Many of the students – not just First Years – now refused to venture out of the castle once the sun started to slip below the horizon, much to the consternation of the Quidditch captains who were desperate to secure some last-minute practice. These rumours were not helped by the frequent sightings of Hagrid, giant crossbow in hand, coming in or out of the Forbidden Forest.

Dumbledore sighed. He had tried to reason with Hagrid, but it made no difference. On learning that the student who had saved his life was in fact Harry Potter, the half-giant had made it his personal mission to find him and bring him back to the castle. "Shouldn't have let him go all those years ago," he had said gruffly, wiping at the tears that stained his long beard, before heading out into the Forest again.

His thoughts were interrupted as a familiar flash of fire signalled Fawkes' arrival. The phoenix settled gently on his shoulder, trilling softly. Dumbledore straightened. "And you're sure it's her?" he asked. Fawkes chirruped loudly, pecking his ear affectionately. "Yes, of course. My apologies."

Fawkes trilled again and swooped off down the corridor, with Dumbledore following closely behind. With the phoenix spiralling effortlessly up the stairwell, he laboriously climbed the steps to the Astronomy Tower, wheezing heavily. Of course, he could have made it much easier for himself with the use of magic, but this seemed the least act of penitence he could offer.

Mopping the sweat from his brow with a large spotted handkerchief, he emerged at last onto the open platform at the top of the tower. The chill early evening air cooled him instantly, and he silently cast a mild Warming Charm as he began to shiver.

With a last trill, Fawkes soared out of sight around the curve of the roof and Dumbledore followed dutifully, leaning heavily on the wooden rail as he slowly travelled the walkway that encircled the tip of the tower. As he had expected, he found the object of his journey on the side of the tower that faced the Forbidden Forest.

Long red hair whipping in the wind, Ginny Weasley sat cross-legged on a thin blanket, Fawkes perched on her knee. Around her were scattered an assortment of Omnioculars and other spyglasses, and she stroked Fawkes' head softly as he crooned a sad melody which matched her demeanour. She started as she became aware of Dumbledore's presence, scrambling to her feet and dislodging Fawkes in the process.

The phoenix squawked indignantly and flapped off into the night. Ginny watched him go anxiously. "I hope I didn't offend him, Professor. He's kept me company most nights-" She paused, blushing. "Well, once or twice." Lowering her head, she stared down at her shoes, thin arms wrapped around herself.

Extending his Warming Charm, Dumbledore gestured silently for her to sit back down again, following suit. Ginny's eyes widened as the ancient Professor nimbly sat cross-legged opposite her, and widened further as she felt the heavily padded duvet which had replaced her tattered blanket. She toyed nervously with a heavy brass telescope which lay discarded next to her, unable to keep her gaze from straying towards the deeper darkness which marked out the edge of the forest.

Dumbledore watched her closely, taking in the dark circles around her eyes which were clearly visible even behind the tangled hair that continually swept across her drawn features. The petite student looked even smaller than usual, her cheeks hollow and sunken, her frame emaciated. He frowned deeply, torn between anger and regret that Harry hadn't been able to understand how much he would be missed. Silently, he reached out towards the young girl, thrusting the large mug of hot chocolate that had appeared out of nowhere into her surprised hands.

"T-thanks, Professor," she whispered, drinking deeply from the mug and absently wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Catching his amused gaze, she blushed scarlet. "S-sorry," she murmured, face seeming to match the fiery colour of her hair. Dumbledore waved a hand, nonchalantly, conjuring up another mug, and took a long, satisfying swig of the contents before grinning widely and wiping the ring of chocolate away from his mouth with the back of his hand.

Ginny snorted with laughter despite herself, and settled back more comfortably into the thick duvet, her gaze turning away again. Shifting round to mimic her posture, Dumbledore joined in her silent vigil as the last vestiges of lingering daylight melted away and the forest merged into the inky blackness of the night.

Long after the forest had vanished from sight, the odd couple remained fixed in place, each lost in deep thought. Finally, Ginny stirred, stretching her arms out and wincing slightly at their stiffness. She glanced over at the Headmaster, unsure of how to proceed. There was so much she wanted – needed to know, but the idea of her, Ginny Weasley, demanding the truth from the Headmaster of Hogwarts seemed beyond ridiculous. Even Fred and George kept their distance from Dumbledore – of course, in their case it was more out of necessity than respect.

She shifted restlessly, her mouth thinning. She had to know what the real truth behind Harry's past was – why Dumbledore had seemed almost afraid of him. He might think she was rude, but right now, she couldn't care less. Heart thudding wildly, she opened her mouth to speak.

"Yes, of course Miss Weasley – you are right."

Dumbledore's calm voice cut effortlessly through the blustery breeze that whirled around the tall tower. Ginny started, eyes wide. He couldn't – could he?

Dumbledore chuckled, enjoying her startled expression despite the seriousness of the moment. "No, I'm afraid I can't read minds Miss Weasley – but I can read students."

Ginny looked dumbfounded, and Dumbledore's half smile melted away, the inappropriate humour vanishing in an instant. He leaned forward slightly, eyes boring into hers. How much could – should – he tell her? This was a young girl, a student at his school. By virtue of her position, she already knew more about Harry than was wise. Was it right to burden her with more?

Steadfastly meeting his gaze, Ginny's dark brown eyes burned with a ragged intensity and a desperate need to know – to understand. Sagging tiredly, Dumbledore nodded almost imperceptibly. He understood all too well the passions of youth. To leave Ginny like this was to risk her health, and, after all, he had sworn to protect and nurture his students.

"Well, Miss Weasley," he began, then stopped, uncertain of how to continue. He cleared his throat.

"Ginny – what do you know about the Unspeakables?"

Ginny proved herself to be an excellent listener over the next few minutes. Solemn eyes fixed on Dumbledore, she sat bolt upright, drinking in every word as he told her the little he had been able to learn. For the most part, she listened impassively, only betraying the welter of emotions she was feeling when he described the methods of discipline the Unspeakables had employed.

"Those scars," she whispered. "_They_ did them?" Dumbledore nodded silently, then watched in alarm at the feral expression that flickered across her face. Closing her eyes tightly, she nodded for him to continue while a solitary tear worked its way down her cheek.

Eventually, Dumbledore ground to a halt, his final sentence trailing off into a deep silence. He had revealed far more than he intended, but had found himself unable to stop. The torrent of words, once released, had proved difficult to stem. Taking a long, shuddering breath in, he straightened, feeling unaccountably lighter.

Lost in his thoughts, he jumped as Ginny spoke softly. "I don't understand." He looked sharply at her, at once full of misgiving. Had he expected too much?

"I don't understand," she repeated insistently. "Why are you afraid of him?"

Dumbledore felt his mouth sag open in surprise, then he gathered his tattered wits together and nodded in silent approval. "Very good, Miss Weasley," he murmured distractedly, stroking his beard in agitation.

Ginny waited patiently, legs crossed, while Dumbledore held a furious internal debate. If there was one thing that being a Weasley had taught her, it was the benefit of a good poker face. Feigning disinterest, she glanced out over the invisible forest far below the ancient tower. Even as she held her breath in nervous anticipation, she couldn't stop thinking of Harry, somewhere out there in the gathering darkness.

_Just what was he doing?_

~DP~_  
_

The clinging branches of the thick forest reluctantly released their hold as Harry crashed through them heavily. His paws and legs ached savagely from his exertions earlier in the day but he scarcely felt the pain. It was nothing compared to the welter of emotions tearing through him. _Coward_, his mind screamed. _Murderer. ._

He shook his great head, trying to scatter the thoughts that circled his mind. A low, rough growl rumbled from between his open jaws, and a startled flock of birds erupted from a nearby thicket, beating the air furiously in their haste to escape. Ignoring them, he nosed into the deepest part of the thicket, relishing the sharp pricks of the thorns. At least that was something real, something to distract him momentarily from the recent past.

In the weeks since his flight from Hogwarts, he had largely remained in his Animagus form. At first, it was out of necessity. The injuries he had sustained had been exacerbated by his fall from the window, even with the mitigating factor of the hasty Cushioning Charm he had cast as he fell. The giant wolf was able to cope with the pain more easily, so he remained as the wolf. As time went on, he had begun to realise that it was another kind of pain he sought to escape, something all together more human.

The practical nature of the wolf was unconcerned with such emotions as shame and regret, and for a while he attempted to elude them. Gradually however, even this temporary respite faded away. While shame and regret were alien emotions, the driving imperative of the pack thudded through the wolf's body like a heartbeat. Every long loping stride away from Hogwarts became harder to take. The pack needed him, the wolf part of his mind insisted, and he was unable to repress the primitive instinct to return, even though his rational mind begged him not to. Turning his nose back towards Hogwarts, he had raced through the night, arriving panting and exhilarated on the edge of the forest a week earlier.

Pausing in his bitter recollections, he flung his long body to the ground, muzzle resting on outstretched paws. Gradually, the silent forest came back to life, the regular nocturnal patterns re-establishing themselves. Lulled by the sounds, he closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep, even if only for a while.

Hogwarts had been a bittersweet sight in the dim light of dawn. Part of him ached to throw off his wolf form and rejoin his true kind, but another part whispered to him that he lacked the humanity to be amongst humans; that he was a dangerous animal, regardless of the skin he wore. He had spent the next few days pacing along the edge of the forest, avoiding contact with the students wherever possible. Ceaselessly patrolling, he kept a close eye on the students, learning their patterns and drawing close when he knew they were likely to be outside. He told himself that he was keeping them all safe, looking out for them, but even the wolf knew that was a lie. There was only one reason he watched them, but without reward. She never came.

One evening, as he weaved soundlessly through the tree line, he was stunned to see Ron striding determinedly towards the forest, with Hermione trailing behind. Hermione was pulling Ron backwards, clearly pleading with him to return to the castle. He could hear Ron's angry, sharp tones as he attempted to loosen her grip, but Hermione was typically tenacious. Ears pricked forwards, he crept closer, straining to catch their angry exchange.

"She needs you Ron – you know that." Hermione sounded earnest but somehow resigned and Harry realised with a jolt that this was a well-rehearsed argument.

"She needs _him_, Hermione – you know _that_," Ron spat back heatedly, his face flushed. Hermione dropped her head, but didn't let go.

"I know, Ron – and he needs her. But he must have his reasons-"

Ron whirled round to face her, eyes narrowed. "What reasons, Hermione – what?" Hermione paled, and she made a soft, inarticulate sound, her hand falling away. Ron's face softened instantly.

"Sorry, Hermione, I didn't mean-" Hermione shook her head, and Ron fell silent. He kicked a nearby stone savagely, sending it skittering into the forest. The stone came to rest by Harry's right front paw, and he looked down at it, willing himself not to hear the rest of the conversation but unable to move away.

"She just looks so – so empty." Ron's defeated voice carried clearly on the still air. Harry stiffened, then melted silently into the forest. Within seconds he was running flat out, desperate not to hear more.

"I know Ron – you're right. She needs him." Hermione's quiet words echoed in his ears as he raced away, straining every muscle in his body to escape, running from the shame once again.

~DP~

"Professor?"

Ginny's quiet voice was scarcely audible over the stiff breeze that had sprung up whilst they had been talking. Dumbledore pressed the flat of his hand hard against his lined forehead, rubbing as if hoping to Obliviate his own memories. He looked at the distant horizon, noting the dark storm clouds that were building in the sky deep into the forest canopy. His gnarled features twisted in an uncharacteristic frown._ You're too old for this, Albus_. Keenly aware of Ginny's gaze, he reluctantly looked into the dark molten pools of her intense eyes. _And she's too young._ A harsh, humourless bark of laughter escaped his lips, and Ginny flinched, looking suddenly wary.

"What I'm about to tell you," Dumbledore began, scarcely believing what he was doing. "What you want to know - cannot ever be repeated to anyone." Ginny nodded eagerly, her face rapt. His tone hardened.

"Not to your family. Not to Ron, nor Miss Granger. Not even to Harry himself. Especially not to Harry."

Ginny rocked back on her heels, neatly tucked under her, but did not reply. Watching her intently, Dumbledore felt a surge of pride as she remained silent, considering his words carefully. If she had given a glib response, he would have seriously reconsidering saying any more. _If I'd ever had a daughter..._

Letting out a deep, shuddering sigh, Ginny nodded mutely. Her hair was blown into fiery, swirling ribbons by the rapidly increasing wind, and Dumbledore increased the Warming Charm as the temperature plummeted. Had the situation been less serious, he might have been amused by the timing of the shift in weather. Knowing, as he did, what it meant, he couldn't muster any such emotion.

"Do you recall the day in my office, when you first learned of Harry's real identity?"

Thirty miles away, Harry huddled deeper into the thicket, curling himself up as the rain lashed down, plastering his thick fur into clumps that clung tightly to his shivering body. Exhausted, he longer had the energy to escape his thoughts, and the black shadow of his desolate memories engulfed him once more. _Murderer. ._

After overhearing the painful truth from Ron and Hermione, Harry had begun to take more risks in his movements around Hogwarts, desperate to see Ginny once more. Earlier that day, in the shifting shade of the afternoon sun, he made it as far as the huge wooden doors that guarded the entrance to the castle. Heart thudding unevenly, he stared up at the enormous doors that blocked his way from the safety of a nearby bush. All it would take was a single, focused thought and he would be human again, a Hogwarts student, and free to pass the magical enchantments preventing entry. Now was the time, before the final class of the day ended. One look at Ginny was all he needed to see how she was, and then he could leave.

Now. Right now.

In an instant, the crouching bulk of the black wolf was replaced with an altogether leaner one. Green eyes fixed firmly on the door, Harry stood up, his upper body in plain sight above the bush. He took a deep, calming breath in, squared his shoulders and-

With a thud, the wooden doors were flung open and a mass of chattering students spilled out into the last remnants of the afternoon sunlight. Harry ducked into hiding again, form shifting back to the wolf to better blend in with the semi-shadow of the bush. Talking animatedly, the students strolled past his hiding place, oblivious to his presence. Mentally cursing each one as they passed, Harry slunk back further into the protective cover of the leaves.

The minutes crawled by with agonising slowness as the flow of students thinned out to a trickle, interspersed with the occasional professor. Hagrid, the huge groundskeeper Harry had last faced across a blood-soaked forest clearing stomped by, crossbow slung across one meaty forearm, muttering to himself. His boarhound trailed after him, sniffing intently at the ground. With a dawning sense of dread, Harry glared as the dog followed his scent towards the bush, hind quarters quivering with excitement. Harry bared his sharp teeth and growled, the air resonating with menace. With a sharp whimper, the dog raced after Hagrid, tail firmly between legs.

Darting quickly out, Harry flew across the lawn, paws barely touching the ground. He skidded inelegantly to a standstill as soon as he reached a small copse of alder trees near the lake, and whipped round to check for pursuit, his tongue lolling out as he fought to control his breathing. He winced inwardly as he heard the excited, piping voices of two First Year boys drawing closer.

"I'm telling you, it went in there!"

"Did you _see _the size of it!"

Stealthily, Harry wound sinuously between the trunks of the alders, not daring to breath as he worked along the edge of the copse nearest the water, ears flattened to his skull and heart hammering in his chest. The squeaking sound of the students' voices grew fainter as he rapidly put distance between them. Thankfully, their curiosity was tempered by fear and they didn't dare follow him into the shadowy trees. Finding a small hollow that overlooked the lake, he padded quietly down to the waterline, alert for any other followers. Gratefully, he lowered his head to the water and drank deeply, feeling his racing heart beginning to slow. Sagging down to the ground in relief, he rested his head on his paws and stared unseeingly across the gently undulating surface of the lake.

In stark contrast to the placid water, a storm of emotions raged inside him. After that debacle, he couldn't possibly take such a stupid risk again. He shook his head angrily - what had he been thinking? He had been trained better than that. Growling in frustration, he flattened himself even closer to the muddy ground as if his instructors could see him now.

His training.

His breath caught. Thinking about his training was a dangerous line to follow, and one he had tried to avoid during his flight. After all, he had been trained for only one thing. To kill.

_Murderer._

So lost was he in the bitter memories of the past, that the first shrill scream almost seemed like just another dark memory. It was only as he struggled to escape the enveloping tentacles of his upbringing that he realised that the second scream was coming from the present - and from close proximity. He leaped to his feet, ears straining to catch another sound.

In an instant he was running at full tilt, smashing through the thick undergrowth and only giving way to the largest obstacles. Even as the desperate scream echoed across the lake and faded out, he was closing in on the source. Caught between memory and reality, he was unsure exactly who he was running to save - the unknown person ahead, or his own terrified younger self. Before he knew it, he was clear of the tree line and racing across the sandy shore of the Black Lake towards a solitary figure, who stood transfixed by the unfolding events on the lake.

Great waves roiled and crashed against the shore as the long, dark tentacles of the giant squid thrashed in a paroxysm of agony. Caught up in the deadly embrace, the bedraggled forms of two First Year girls could be seen clinging to the shattered hull of one of the enchanted rowing boats the school used.

Harry increased his stride still further, surging towards the unfolding tragedy. All it would take was for one of the squid's tentacles to find their mark-

With an ear-splitting crunch, a flailing tentacle slammed down onto the boat, crushing it altogether and hurling the students in opposite directions. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, even as Harry strained every sinew in his wolf form to reach them as quickly as he could. Brushing roughly past the on looking student he leapt gracefully into the water, at once thankful for his Animagus form. Recreational pursuits such as swimming didn't rank highly on the Unspeakables' list of approved training methods.

Striking out powerfully with all four paws, Harry shot through the churning water, rapidly closing in on the nearest student, who was coughing and spluttering faintly. Dipping briefly beneath the water, Harry rose up underneath her, his broad back lifting her clear of the surface of the lake. Her hands clung to his fur with surprising strength and he quickly made for the shore.

Dumping the shivering girl unceremoniously on the sand, Harry whirled round and set off in search of the second student. Swimming hard, he reached the area where he had last seen her, glancing wildly around.

There was no sign of her.

A low growl of anguish bubbled up in his throat, and he plunged beneath the surface of the lake, searching desperately for a glimpse of her. Lungs burning, he swam still deeper into the gloomy waters, dodging a thick tentacle that threatened to render him unconscious. Vision fading, black spots swarming everywhere he looked, his strong muscles still drove him onwards even as his heart jack-hammered in his chest.

And then, quite suddenly, there she was. Floating gently in the water, eyes wide open, she stared sightlessly at him. Thick tendrils of blood blossomed from her long red hair, fanning out almost gracefully in the water. Harry's heart skipped several beats. For a moment, as the faint beams of the fading sun illuminated her hair, she looked almost like-

He pushed the paralysing thought aside, and considered his options, brain stuttering rapidly through the possibilities. In his current form, he couldn't get hold of the girl – so that needed to change. Strength waning, he focused his magical energy inside himself and an instant later he had folded the girl tightly under his now human arm. Now that left the small matter of his limited swimming abilities. He thrashed wildly with his free arm, kicking feebly, but the weight of his clothes began to drag him backwards, as he sank into the inky blackness of the lake.

The black spots across his vision reached out and merged as the burning pressure in his chest began to overwhelm his mind. The need to breath was so overpowering, and it would be so easy, really, just to open his mouth-

_Are you a wizard, or not, Potter?_ Harry's eyes shot open as the amused sounding voice kick-started his brain back into action. Pawing at his robes, his nerveless fingers closed around his wand, dragging it out. With his last remaining energy, he pointed it vaguely upwards. The same voice echoed again inside his head, screaming out the incantation endlessly as they were engulfed in the numbing embrace of the Black Lake.

~DP~

Rosie Smithson coughed up a last mouthful of brackish lake water and straightened up, trembling violently. Her reddened eyes swept the surface of the lake, barely noting that the giant squid had vanished as suddenly as it had come. As the water gradually smoothed out, her trembling increased and tears cascaded silently down her face as nothing disturbed the still, mirror-like surface. Just as her legs threatened to give way, she stiffened in shock. A huge spume of water erupted from the surface of the water, cascading down over her. Hurtling upwards from the centre of it, and arcing down gracelessly toward her, a shapeless, sodden mass crashed down solidly on the sand to her right, skidding to a messy halt.

Breath hitching in her chest, Rosie staggered towards the mass, which she now recognised as the two figures clothed in identical Hogwarts robes. As she neared them, the larger figure stirred. The boy – she was close enough now to tell it was a boy, even though his features were obscured by long black hair – dragged himself to his knees, taking in deep, rattling breaths.

Rosie blinked in confusion. She had a murky memory of grabbing hold of thick fur, of a large animal of some kind. She was certain that the boy, a Fifth or Sixth Year, judging from his height and build, had not been in the vicinity of the lake before the attack-

Gasping, she dropped to her knees by the side of the smaller figure. Pushing back the sodden red hair of her friend, she cried out in shock and grief as her hand came away covered in blood. "Jenna!"

A firm grip on her shoulder alerted her to the presence of the boy. "Let me help," he whispered hoarsely, moving her aside gently. "I can help." Shaking like a leaf, Rosie mutely allowed him access whilst still clinging to Jenna's unresponsive hand. Sweeping his wand rapidly over her body, the strange boy muttered barely audible charms to no avail. Jenna lay silent and unmoving. Rosie's eyes spilled over with tears as he rocked back in frustration, his serious face contorted with fierce defiance. "Sod it," he snarled and Rosie watched incredulously as he leant over Jenna and covered her mouth with his own. For a moment, she sat frozen with shock – why was he _kissing_ her – until she saw Jenna's chest rising and falling, and felt her fingers tighten their grip.

Jenna coughed weakly, water trickling from her mouth, and her eyes flickered open, barely visible under the mask of blood that covered most of her features. The boy, still leaning over her, breathed out a ragged sigh of relief.

Jenna Prittle took a deep, shuddering breath in and was immediately seized with a series of wracking coughs. Her head and chest ached dreadfully, and she blinked rapidly to clear her vision. The dark shape that filled most of her field of vision swam into focus, and she took a sharp intake of breath that had nothing to do with swallowing half the Black Lake.

Fixed intently on her were the most _amazing_ pair of green eyes she had ever seen in her life, perfectly framed by dark, brooding good looks and hair so thick and unruly she would have given _anything _to run her hands through it.

"I – I-" she managed weakly, and felt her heart race as the gorgeous stranger leaned even closer to her. "I – like your eyes," she burst out. There was a strangled harrumphing sound nearby and she felt her hand being squeezed painfully hard, but she barely noticed, her entire being fixed on the godlike boy whose tired, bloodstained face was split with a shy smile that transformed his serious features.

"I like your hair," he whispered back gently, and Jenna felt her insides melting into a pool at his feet. "But we need to get you to-"

There was a sudden crashing sound coming from the nearby forest and the boy jerked upwards, his lingering smile replaced by a snarl that widened and deepened, his body shifting until-

Eyes widening with shock, Jenna screamed in sheer terror as the giant wolf, blood dripping from around its muzzle, crouched menacingly over her helpless body.

~DP~

Ginny regarded the ancient headmaster through eyes that whirled with a mixture of confusion, awe - and fear. The icy wind whipped mercilessly around the soaring tower, and she shivered, even though she was perfectly comfortable inside the cocoon of Professor Dumbledore's Warming Charm. She looked up as the first drops of rain fell from the huge cloud overhead. They hissed as they hit the bubble of the Warming Charm, evaporating instantly, and Ginny stood as if mesmerised.

Dumbledore watched her anxiously, already regretting his foolishness. She _was_ too young to take this all on her narrow shoulders, he angrily berated himself. _There's no fool like an old fool, Albus Dumbledore._

_And yet..._

And yet if Harry was to return to Hogwarts, it would surely not be him that the boy would seek out first. Too late, the elderly Headmaster had realised the closeness between this remarkable young witch and the famous, deadly, Harry Potter.

Now it was his turn to shiver, although the numbness that chilled him to his core had very little to do with the inclement weather conditions. Yes, Harry Potter was a very dangerous wizard, but the greatest danger he posed was not to others, but to himself. Right now, he was poised on the brink of oblivion and was completely unaware of it.

And the one – only – thing that could prevent the inevitable disaster was the vulnerable young girl stood in front of him, still transfixed by the hissing of the falling rain.

"Miss Weasley?"

Ginny started violently, her eyes unfocused. She looked around in confusion, then colour overflowed her pale cheeks as she remembered herself. Scrubbing the back of one hand roughly across her mouth, she met Dumbledore's frowning gaze.

"Sorry Headmaster – I – I was thinking things over," she finished lamely.

Dumbledore nodded slowly, his frown deepening. "I fear, Miss Weasley, that I have asked too much of you, keeping this secret."

Ginny's face reddened as her infamous hot temper boiled over. "Firstly, _Headmaster_," she shot back with pointed sarcasm, "I think we're a bit past 'Miss Weasley', don't you?"

Dumbledore, looking staggered, opened his mouth to say something, then clicked it abruptly shut as Ginny continued inexorably, tiny hands now clenched on hips in an uncanny impersonation of her mother.

"-And I think that _I _am best placed to judge what I can cope with, thank you very much _Professor_-"

Nodding meekly, Albus Dumbledore watched in dazed admiration as Ginny seemed to swell with renewed anger, her fury washing over him with almost palpable force.

"-And as far as keeping a _secret_ goes, well if you don't think a _Weasley_ knows how to keep a secret, then you can shove your patronising waffle right-"

Ginny's voice suddenly cut out as she stuffed a fist into her mouth, stifling the last part of the sentence. White as a sheet, she stared aghast at the Headmaster of Hogwarts, her eyes like saucers.

There was a long, tense silence during which Dumbledore drew himself up to his full imposing height and Ginny blushed in silent mortification, then both simultaneously burst into howling fits of laughter, their high-pitched snorts echoing out over the stormy night sky.

Dumbledore sank weakly to the floor, resting against the wooden railing, tears trickling down his long beard as he desperately fought to contain his mirth.

Hiccupping, Ginny wiped her streaming eyes with the sleeve of her robe, not daring to meet his eyes in case it set them both off again. The last few chuckles faded into a companionable, unbroken silence.

After a few moments, Ginny smoothed her hair back, straightened her rumpled robes and stood up, once again facing the Forbidden Forest. Dumbledore watched her, still smiling at the incredible display of the volcanic Weasley temper that she obviously shared with her mother.

It wasn't until her shoulders began to hitch that he realised that she had been silently crying for the last few moments. Silently, his face once again grave, he approached her, placing a comforting hand on her quivering shoulder.

"I-I'm s-s-sorry, P-Professor," Ginny choked out between sobs. "I'm just s-so s-s-s-scared." Dumbledore's hand tightened on her shoulder as she gazed up at him, tears still silently leaking from her reddened eyes.

"I'm scared f-for him, Professor – for H-H-" Her wavering voice dissolved into more sobs, and Albus Dumbledore, Order of Merlin (First Class) stood by helplessly, not knowing what to say. In truth, there was only one thought echoing in both their minds.

_Just how dangerous was Harry, if the Unspeakables were too afraid to take him back? _

They both whirled round, jolted out of their silent reverie by the crash of the tower door being flung open. Minerva McGonagall, hair cascading out of its normal bun, bolted onto the platform, eyes wildly searching.

"Thank Merlin, Albus," she quavered, close to tears. "There's been an attack. By the Black Lake. Two students." She paused, overwhelmed for a moment while the others looked on, open-mouthed.

"That's not the worst," she forced out between sobs, gazing in abject misery at Ginny, who went so pale that her freckles almost vanished.

"They say that the thing that attacked them was-" She gulped back tears, gratefully taking Dumbledore's proffered handkerchief before continuing, in a voice devoid of all discernible emotion.

"-was a giant, black wolf."


	10. Guardian

Chapter 10 - Guardian

The book-lined room was silent and still, fitfully illuminated by the flickering flames of the fire that burnt sleepily in the hearth. The portraits slumbered peacefully, and even the normally whirring instruments scattered around the office were at rest. Surveying the room from his usual perch, the ancient-looking phoenix glanced wearily around, his feathers dull and moulting. He stirred restlessly, fixing his eyes on the wooden door as if he could see through the heavy oak panels.

A faint grinding noise signalled the staircase springing into action and the phoenix shifted again, cocking his head to one side, his eyes now sharp and gleaming. Oblivious to the impending visitor, the previous Headteachers of Hogwarts snored lightly as they slept on. The phoenix watched the door expectantly, its eyes twinkling in a manner which many Hogwarts students would have found disconcertingly familiar.

With a resounding crash, the door to the office burst open, slamming into the wall with surprising force considering the stature of the visitor. Ignoring the cries of dismay from the portraits, some of whom jumped so hard they almost fell off the wall, the small figure of Ginny Weasley strode into the office, muttering balefully under her breath. Her face was still pale with shock, but her cheeks burnt fiercely as she glared at the grumbling portraits with a look of unmistakable defiance in her red-rimmed eyes.

Watching with perfect equanimity, the phoenix listened with what could pass for amusement to the half-articulated snatches of conversation that the young Gryffindor appeared to be conducting with the empty room.

"Stupid Professors…not a child…must know…"

Kicking savagely at an ornately carved armchair, she winced and flung herself into it, rubbing her bruised toes ruefully. Gazing deep into the fire, her eyes brimmed over with tears which dripped ,unattended, down her face.

With a low cry, the phoenix extended its wings and soared effortlessly across the room, landing lightly on the startled girl's knee. Ignoring her cry of surprise, it hopped along her knee, rubbing its head against the girl's limp arm. It closed its eyes as the girl tentatively stroked its soft feathers, drawn to heal the pain it felt within the young student. After a long moment of silence, the great bird opened its eyes again, sensing that it was not the one to heal the pain the girl felt. It hopped onto the arm of the chair to relieve the slim girl of the surprising weight of its body, but remained close, allowing her to draw what comfort it could from its presence. The unlikely pair stared silently into the flames as the room fell into silence again and shadows chased each other restlessly across the cold stone walls.

Stony-faced, Professor Dumbledore swept through the busy corridors leading from the hospital wing, where the two victims of the attack were being cared for by Madame Pomfrey. With each long stride back towards his office, his feelings of anger and despair grew stronger. Avidly gossiping students fell silent as he passed, cringing away from the crackling magical aurora that he normally took great pains to keep hidden.

Behind him, Professor McGonagall trotted to keep up, her breath coming in furious gasps that had little to do with the pace she was being forced to maintain. She frowned as she took in the pale faces of the students she passed, and put on an extra burst of speed to draw level with Dumbledore as they reached the main staircase.

"Albus," she whispered urgently. "You're scaring the students." Dumbledore paused, one foot on the first step and looked back over his shoulder. A sea of chalky-white faces looked back nervously at him. Coming to his senses, the Headmaster relaxed and the highly-charged atmosphere subsided. There was an audible sigh of relief and Dumbledore nodded briefly, then began racing down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Pausing to whisper urgently at a bemused-looking Madame Hooch, fresh from Quidditch practice, Professor McGonagall shot off in pursuit, casting aside her normally measured stride in an attempt to catch up with the angry Headmaster.

Shooting a baleful glare at the Deputy Headteacher's retreating back, Madame Hooch flicked her wand surreptitiously and cast a Sonorus Charm on herself.

"Right, team," she boomed out. "Practice is cancelled, so into formation and last one back to the changing rooms gets to clean the Quaffle!"

Sighing at the puzzled faces, she spoke with exaggerated deliberation. "Go-to-your-common-rooms. Okay?"

Enlightenment dawned on the assembled students, and they slowly began shuffling off, a low excited buzz of conversation building up as they moved off. Watching them go, Rolanda Hooch shook her head in resignation.

"What is _wrong_ with these children nowadays?"

The portraits jerked awake as the heavy door crashed open again, raising their voices in an angry protest that was instantly quelled by the uncharacteristic rage emanating from the current Headmaster of Hogwarts. Shuffling nervously in their frames, they nevertheless remained in the room, eyes fixed avidly on Dumbledore as he lowered himself heavily into his chair with a grunt.

A reproachful squawk attracted his attention, and his gaze softened as he took in the quietly sleeping form of Ginny Weasley, her pale face standing out starkly even in the dim firelight. His phoenix met his gaze from its position on Ginny's armchair and Dumbledore, against his wishes, let out a brief chuckle.

"You seem to have taken rather a shine to Miss Weasley, Fawkes – should I be worried?" he enquired lightly. The phoenix tilted its head slightly, not looking away, and the two ancient beings exchanged a long and meaning-filled glance. Finally, Dumbledore broke the silent conversation with another short laugh.

"Yes, she is rather exceptional, isn't she," he agreed quietly. He looked down at his gnarled hands and sighed heavily. "But then she'll need to be, if what you say is right."

The phoenix trilled a long and sorrowful note, and Dumbledore nodded, his eyes straying towards the smaller door which led to his private quarters. "Later Fawkes – we have more immediate concerns right now."

"Glad to hear you are making sense again, Headmaster."

Minerva McGonagall's sharp retort was laced with barely-concealed worry, and Dumbledore looked up to see her narrow frame outlined in the doorway, her chest heaving with exertion from her unaccustomed dash through the castle. He felt a twinge of guilt at her exhaustion – she wasn't getting any younger – and rose to solicitously offer her a chair.

McGonagall snorted. "You needn't worry Albus – I'm not about to keel over in your office." She settled herself into her usual chair, taking care not to let the relief she felt cross her face. "You're no spring Nargle yourself, you know."

Fawkes chirruped an agreement, then punctuated his statement by bursting loudly into flames.

Ginny Weasley leapt from her chair, face ashen. Whirling round, she caught sight of the two Professors, and her cheeks burnt with shame. "Professor – I'm so sorry – I didn't mean to-"

Dumbledore lifted a hand, forestalling her apology. "No need, my dear. Fawkes has been due a good burn for a while now."

Ginny looked down at the pile of ashes, enlightenment dawning on her face. She glanced up at the Headmaster. "A phoenix?"

Rising from his seat, Dumbledore nodded, crossing over to her. Kneeling painfully by her chair, he poked gently in the ashes and plucked out a tiny, featherless chick. He held Fawkes out towards Ginny, urging her on with a silent nod.

Taking the new-born Phoenix in her delicate fingers as if she were handling something infinitely precious, she gasped in wonder as Fawkes nuzzled her thumb affectionately. "I've never seen one before," she whispered reverently, placing the phoenix back on his perch with great care.

Fawkes let out a high-pitched chirp and Ginny giggled girlishly. She looked back at Dumbledore, still crouched by the armchair, and her smile faded as recent events reasserted themselves again.

Dumbledore felt his answering smile melt from his lips, and the churning mixture of emotions bubbled up inside him once more. Ignoring the cracking in his knees as he stood up again, he crossed heavily back to his desk, gesturing for Ginny to take up the seat next to Professor McGonagall.

The Deputy Headmistress gave him a quizzical look as he returned to his seat once more, nodding almost infinitesimally towards the young girl by her side. Dumbledore simply stared in return and she rolled her eyes silently, before nodding her assent, even though her face made her disapproval clear.

Ginny watched the exchange silently, reading their faces, then turned towards Dumbledore at its conclusion. Her brown eyes met his, and the Professor was forcibly reminded of how much this young girl had grown in his estimation as he regarded her intent and determined face.

"Harry didn't attack the students," he stated baldly.

Ginny sagged with relief as the tension drained from her body. "I knew it," she whispered almost inaudibly, lost in her own thoughts. Waiting patiently, the Headmaster gave her a few moments to recover her composure before continuing.

"I'm afraid, however," he continued, regarding her closely, "That the same cannot be said for the students."

Ginny stiffened, the fierce expression that Dumbledore remembered seeing in the Pensieve memory of the fight outside Potions returning to her face.

"They hurt him?" she hissed, eyes narrowed.

Dumbledore hesitated. "Perhaps," he mused aloud, "It might be better if we reviewed the memories I collected." His penetrating gaze fell on Ginny, who paled noticeably but kept her composure. "It would be useful to get your perspective Ginny, but I must warn you that it will be – disturbing."

Ginny sat silently for a moment, and Dumbledore regarded her steadily, ignoring Professor McGonagall's furious gaze. _You underestimate this girl, Minerva_. He glanced over at the tiny Fawkes on his perch, recalling their silent conversation. _Then again, maybe I do too_.

"I'm ready, Professor." Ginny's face was still pale, but her eyes revealed her determination to proceed.

Dumbledore nodded absently, then looked over to a silently stewing Professor McGonagall. "Minerva?" he questioned gently.

McGonagall rolled her eyes in exasperation and stood up. "As if you need to ask, Albus," she snapped. "I haven't abandoned a student of Gryffindor yet, have I?"

Dumbledore's lip quirked up in a quick smile, and he observed Ginny quickly hide her mouth with her hand. "Of course not, Minerva," he responded peaceably. With a flick of his wand, the Pensieve floated over to sit on the desk before him. From a pocket of his voluminous robes, he pulled out a several small phials and poured their contents into the Pensieve.

"That should ensure coverage of the - significant events," he murmured. He reached a long finger towards the undulating surface, then paused, looking up. "I'm assuming you know how a Pensieve works, Ginny?"

Ginny snorted, rolling her eyes in an unconscious imitation of her Head of House. "I'm a pureblood witch, Professor," she replied simply as she extended one arm, rolling the sleeve of her too-long robe back without bothering to look up.

Dumbledore felt his lip twitch again. "Of course," he agreed quietly. "On three, then?"

_Eyes widening with shock, Jenna screamed in sheer terror as the giant wolf, blood dripping from around its muzzle, crouched menacingly over her helpless body._

_Bursting from the forest, the two small First Year students skidded to a halt, eyes wide at the scene before them. Beneath Harry, Jenna's screams trailed off into muffled sobs as she gazed up with dawning realisation at the wolf that had replaced her saviour._

"_It –it's k-killed her!" _

"_Help! Someone help!"_

_Rosie lurched to her feet, frantically extending a pleading hand towards the two boys, who were still screeching in high-pitched voices. Her eyes widened further as louder crashes signalled the arrival of a larger group of older students._

_She turned quickly to the wolf, her rational mind beginning to work again. "You've got to leave," she whispered urgently. The wolf glanced at her, its mouth closing, and took a slow, uncertain pace forwards. Jenna, still lying on the ground, seemed unable to move as she stared with a vacant expression at the wolf that had now passed over her completely._

_Rosie smiled tentatively at the wolf, now stood in front of her._

"_Th-thanks-"_

_Agony coursed through her body as she dimly felt the impact of a spell on her unprotected back. Dazedly, she looked at the forest floor which appeared to have risen up in front of her as the coppery taste of her own blood filled her mouth. As if calling from a great distance, she heard the faint shouts of the students and saw bolts of green light streaking overhead as the shadows reached out to engulf her completely…_

"That's where Miss Smithson's memory ends, I'm afraid," Dumbledore said quietly.

Ginny looked at him silently, her eyes hard and furious. "So they did attack him, then?" Her voice was low but venomous.

From beside him, Dumbledore heard a quickly stifled sob from Professor McGonagall, and placed a comforting hand on her bony shoulder without breaking Ginny's gaze. "Would you care to see the rest?" he asked, without directly answering her question.

Ginny nodded stiffly, her whole body radiating tension.

_From her position on the floor, Jenna watched numbly as her friend's body slammed to the ground. Her mind screamed out for her body to move, but it stubbornly refused to obey her commands and she was only able to watch helplessly as events continued to their inevitable conclusion._

_The terrified group of students, now comprised of Sixth and Seventh Year students as well as the young boys, were firing spells indiscriminately in their general direction. A Stinging Hex ploughed into the ground inches from Jenna's head and she stared in terrible fascination as the leaves around it hissed and blackened._

_Movement caught her eye and she watched in silent astonishment as the wolf sprang in front of her, shielding her and Rosie from the worst of the spells. The great form shook as the spells impacted on it, ripping into its unprotected side mercilessly, and Jenna gasped as fresh blood splattered wetly across her face._

_Suddenly, she was able to move again and crawled towards the wolf, now struggling to stay on its feet as the spells grew in intensity. With a whimper, it slumped down, breathing raggedly. Reaching its side, Jenna mustered her last resources and threw herself over its body, twining her hands into its blood-soaked fur as she too teetered on the edge of unconsciousness. She sensed, rather than felt, the spell fire abruptly trailing off as a loud, angry bellowing voice jolted her from her stupor. Enormous rough hands were gently moving her, and she groggily opened an eye to see a huge and heavily bearded face staring anxiously down at her…_

Braced for the usual lurch, Dumbledore found himself sat back in his chair. A soft cry drew his attention immediately, and he looked up just in time to see Ginny Weasley sink to the carpet, face chalk-white. Instantly, Professor McGonagall was at her side, her face drawn and tight with a curious mixture of fear and sympathy. Casting a spell over Ginny, McGonagall watched anxiously, then relaxed slightly as the colour flooded back into Ginny's cheeks and her eyelashes fluttered open.

As consciousness returned, Ginny's body stiffened in shock, a terrible, blank expression on her face. Staring unseeingly at the worried Professors, she whispered, "Is he…" Her scratchy, raw voice trailed off and the colour fled her face once more.

Dropping to his knees with no concession to his advanced years, Dumbledore cursed himself bitterly for his relentless stupidity. "Harry is alive," he replied urgently. "Do you understand Ginny – he is _alive_."

The blank expression faded as his words sunk in, and her reddened eyes twitched over to meet his. "A-Alive?" she croaked, struggling weakly to sit upright. Her voice became stronger, more insistent. "W-where is he?"

"Hagrid is tracking him down now," Professor McGonagall replied firmly. "Once he dispersed the crowd and took the two girls to the Hospital Wing – they're both fine too," she hurriedly added, seeing Ginny's concerned expression. "Hagrid returned to help Harry, and found that he had – left."

Her eyes strayed to Dumbledore's, and the two Professors exchanged an uneasy glance.

Ginny hauled herself laboriously to her knees, two hectic spots of colour burning on her pallid face. "So he left again? We're no closer to him?" Her voice was flat and laced with bitterness.

Dumbledore shook his head quickly, still knelt by her side, and enveloped her small hand in his larger, heavily wrinkled one. "Harry must have been injured – he – he left a trail behind him." Ginny opened her mouth to speak and Dumbledore interjected, patting her hand comfortingly, "He won't have got far – Hagrid will be returning at any moment, you'll see."

His gaze met Professor McGonagall's, and both knew they were sharing the same memory – one that they had not seen fit to share with Ginny.

_A long, slick trail of blood beginning in a dark, congealing puddle of gore and leading in a weaving smear into the depths of the Forbidden Forest._

"Yes, my dear, Hagrid will find him – you'll see." He didn't doubt that for a moment – especially given the companion that Hagrid would be taking with him.

The question was – would Harry still be alive?

Swearing loudly, Hagrid batted aside the decaying trunk with a careless swipe of one huge hand, and rubbed his aching side ruefully. "Ruddy trees," he growled.

Gracefully ducking Hagrid's backswing, his companion glanced up at the half-giant, a ghost of a smile crossing his pale, lined face. "You will find them in forests, Hagrid," he murmured quietly in a hoarse, strained voice.

Hagrid grunted in response and nodded jerkily at the faint traces of blood on the path ahead. "Trail's fading," he said hopefully. "Think that means he's healing?" His companion shot him a meaningful look and Hagrid sighed. "That's what I thought." Both men knew the real reason for the lack of blood.

Harry had precious little left to bleed.

"Reckon you can still find him," said Hagrid, only half-asking. The pale-faced man nodded heavily, running a shaking hand through his greying hair.

"Just a minute," he replied listlessly.

He took a deep, shuddering breath in and closed his eyes. His head lifted and he sniffed, as if scenting the trail. His eyelids flicked open, and his pupils dilated, the corneas darkening to a dull red.

"This way," he said, his voice thicker and more guttural than before. He shook his head, eyes returning to normal.

He coughed, making an effort to speak in his usual tone. "He went this way," he repeated, pointing off to the left.

Hagrid squinted in the direction indicated, struggling to make out the thick tree trunks in the gloomy forest. "Are you sure?" His tone was dubious.

His companion sighed, and pointed upwards without replying. Tilting his bushy head back, Hagrid stared up at the waxing moon just visible through the thick forest canopy.

"Oh – right," he replied embarrassedly, looking down at his old friend. "You still okay?" he added, striving to sound unconcerned.

The man nodded, rubbing his arms as if feeling a sudden chill. "Three more nights Hagrid," he whispered, his voice desolate. With a shudder, he brought his mind back to the present. "Come on Hagrid," he said briskly. "We need to find our boy." His voice was deliberately light, but the deep concern he felt could be easily discerned.

Hagrid frowned, striding off in the direction the man had indicated. His companion loped easily at his side, keeping up with the half-giant's long stride as if he were born to run.

Side by side, the two men pushed deeper into the forest. Periodically, the man paused to sniff at the air and issue directions, each time taking longer to recover himself afterwards. The forest canopy grew thicker as the ancient trees, gnarled with age, wound themselves sinuously around each other, effectively blocking out the moonlight.

The man looked up appreciatively, then wordlessly lit his wand. Somewhat clumsily, Hagrid lifted his umbrella and the tip flickered with light. His companion looked amused, but said nothing, his face looking even more strained than was usual.

Noting his companion's increased tension, Hagrid quickened his pace, bludgeoning through the thick trunks without a care for further injury. Following in his wake, the smaller man almost missed Hagrid's low, heartfelt muttering.

"Should have kept him myself…had him in my arms…just a tiny babe"

The man quickened his pace and drew level with his large friend. "Hagrid, you were not to know." He looked up at Hagrid's furious face and felt an answering fury swirl in his veins. "Neither of us could have known."

Hagrid growled angrily. "You were practically his uncle – they should have let you-"

Sighing, his companion shook his head dejectedly, quick eyes still scanning the faint path ahead. "You know they wouldn't have approved," he replied resignedly. "Both you and I are not seen as _suitable_ guardians," he continued, spitting out the word bitterly.

Hagrid shook his huge head angrily. "Still, if they'd got their heads out of their a-" A quick hand gesture from his friend cut him off mid-word.

The man stood stock-still, his body quivering as he breathed deeply through his nose. "He's close," he said savagely, his voice filled with hunger. He darted through the trees, quickly lost from sight . "This way!"

Hagrid swore and lumbered after him, carving a great path through the trees in his haste. He caught up with the man on the edge of a small hollow and restrained him with one meaty hand. "Easy there, old friend," he said gruffly, breathing deeply.

The man nodded, reaching back blindly and grasping Hagrid's comforting hand with his own. Hagrid winced as the long, sharp nails punctured his skin, but kept his grip until the nails retracted and the shuddering subsided.

"T-thanks," the man gasped. "It's the blood, you see." Hagrid nodded, even though he knew his companion couldn't see the gesture, and patted his shoulder reassuringly.

Drawing himself to his full height, the man nodded and stepped slowly forward, his wand lighting the way. "He's in here, I think," he said shakily, wiping the sweat from his brow and regaining his composure. The pale wandlight illuminated the tightly wound trees, moving lower down the trunks as they stepped carefully into the clearing.

The two friends gasped in tandem as the light crept over the motionless form of a young man, partially clothed in the tattered remnants of a Hogwarts cloak. Crossing quickly to him, the man dropped to his knees and ran a shaking wand over the boy's battered body. "He's badly injured," he said tersely, his voice taut with fear.

The ground shook as Hagrid fell to his knees on the other side of the still body. Hagrid's voice shook with emotion, and the man knew without looking up that the tender-hearted giant was crying silently. "Is he d-d-d"

The man shook his head quickly. "I can hear his heart beating." Hagrid breathed out explosively. The man shook his head wonderingly at the results of his spells. "He's strong," he whispered admiringly. "The beating he's taken-"

A low moan cut off his words and both men froze, gazing down at the boy. The long, scruffy hair fell to one side as the boy stirred, eyelids slowly opening to reveal a cloudy green gaze.

The man smiled fully for the first time, his prematurely lined face suddenly appearing much younger. "Hello Harry," he whispered. "I'm an old friend of James and Lilly."

He paused, choking back the emotion that welled up at the mention of their names.

"I'm pleased to finally meet you-"

He blinked back tears and continued, his eyes fixed on the young man who gazed back woozily at him.

"My name is Remus Lupin."


	11. Resolve

Chapter 11 – Resolve

At first there was nothing. A glorious empty expanse, stretching as the eye could see. Lying on his back, he drank it all it, revelling in the nothingness. It certainly made a change from – from what, exactly?

He frowned, brushing his unruly hair back from his forehead. The tips of his fingers registered a damp, warm sensation and he brought his hand back into his field of vision.

Blood.

Now, where did that come from? He didn't recall being injured, or at least he didn't _think_ he remembered. Sitting up, he gazed at the comforting emptiness, and started.

Someone was there.

Right there, in the distance – a lone figure. He shaded his eyes with one hand, straining to make out any identifying details. No use. He started walking, curious to know who it could be. After all, he didn't know anyone – not even himself.

Pace quickening, he began to jog towards the still distant figure, driven by a curiously familiar compulsion. As he drew nearer, a faint buzzing filled his ears and he looked quickly around, looking for the source.

Nothing.

He broke into a run, feeling the sweat prickling his brow. Wiping it off with the back of one hand, he looked in horror at the congealed blood that dripped thickly from his hand. What was happening to him?

Racing across the distance separating them, he panted with effort as he skidded to a halt in front of the figure. He bent over, resting his hands on his knees as he fought to get his breath back. The buzzing was more intense now, and if he listened closely, he could almost make out words within it.

Straightening up, he looked at the stranger for a moment. She was much smaller than him, delicate looking almost. Looking at her pale face, which stood out starkly from the thick red hair that framed it, he frowned deeply.

This girl – she was about his age, he reckoned – was looking at him steadfastly, as if she knew him.

He flushed, feeling embarrassment mixed with anger. Who was this girl? And what gave her the right to look at him like – well, like _that_?

Her mouth opened and she spoke, a single word, but he couldn't make it out over the buzzing, which was now a deafening roar. It filled his head, shaking things loose – curious, bat-like things which spread their wings and fluttered around inside his head, and everywhere they touched memories sprouted up. Tiny tendrils of events, words and people reached out towards each other, and he gasped, overcome with a dizzying sensation.

The girl was speaking again – still the same word. He leaned closer, desperate to know. Her warm breath tickled his cheek as he bent his head until her mouth was millimetres from his ear. He waited, breathless with anticipation.

"Rennervate._"_

A bolt of pure agony seared through his chest and he fell back, crying out as new, painful sensations erupted throughout his body. His left arm dangled uselessly at his side and he crashed to the ground, landing awkwardly with only one hand to cushion the fall. His body stiffened in shock as deep wounds opened up all over it, sending fresh waves of pain shooting though his battered form.

Eyes wide open, he watched helplessly as the girl knelt by his side, preparing to speak again. A low, inarticulate groan leaked out his mouth, all the noise he could make. He didn't want to hear this – why was she doing it to him?

"Rennervate."

A fire started deep inside his lungs, burning fiercely up his throat and searing his vocal chords. Unable to even make a sound, he lay prostate with the girl leaning over him. His vision dimmed and narrowed until all he could see was her eyes looking into his. They were beautiful, he thought wildly – had he ever told her that?

"RENNERVATE!"

Harry's body arched as a blinding red light filled his vision. He felt the soft mattress of a bed under his back, a warm hand holding his own – and pain. Waves of undulating pain crashed over him and he felt himself drowning in it, pushed under by the weight of it.

"RENNERVATE! RENNERVATE! REN-"

His eyelids flew open and he blinked twice. He could make out dim shadows flitting across his vision, and he focused on them, willing himself back to the surface.

"Thank goodness – I thought we'd lost him-"

Harry convulsed again as the pain seared through his veins, overwhelming his senses again. He could vaguely make out the panicked, high-pitched voices screaming at each other and he strained to make out the words, concentrating on piecing them together.

"More pain relief – now!"

"He can't take any more, Miss Weasley-"

"Don't tell me what he can take, you old bag – give it him _now_!"

A cooling wave of numbness washed over Harry, dampening down the pain to a level he thought he could tolerate if he gritted his teeth again it. Blinking, he could make out more distinct shapes now.

The old Matron, Madame Pomfrey. So he was in the Hospital Wing then. Again.

Professor Snape? Why him? Had he been poisoned?

Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore, wands extended towards him. He could make out their spells on the edges of his consciousness, smoothing out the jagged edges of the pain, and he sent them a silent thanks.

And by his side, still clinging tightly to his hand as she glared fiercely at Madame Pomfrey…

Ginny.

He drank in the sight greedily. It had been so long since he had seen her last, he couldn't help it. The rational part of him – the part he associated with _them_ – whispered that it had only been three weeks, but right now he couldn't care less about that. He licked his lips, wincing at their soreness. His throat, mouth and lips felt blistered and charred, and his brain warned him not to try to speak, but he did anyway.

"G-Ginny"

She looked at him, startled, and he relished the sight of her even as his vision dimmed and he sank back into a restless sleep.

Consciousness returned in fits and starts, small episodes of lucidity interspersed with prolonged bouts of oblivion. Gradually, the periods of consciousness grew longer and the need for rest began to dwindle. The pain was still a constant companion, but he adapted to it, learnt to tolerate it and then began slowly to tame it, forcing it to retreat.

He still couldn't speak very well due to a rather well-aimed Choking Hex, but the potions brought up routinely by a sneering Professor Snape were beginning to reverse the effects. Harry couldn't quite understand why the Potions Professor had seemed to take such a sudden dislike to him – previously he had treated Harry with the same indifference he favoured most of his students with – but it was of little importance and he cast it aside.

Usually, when he woke, he had a visitor. The pale-faced man, Lupin, was most often there and always seemed delighted to see him, his tired face crinkling into a smile every time he sensed Harry's eyes on him.

Harry had a vague memory of this man introducing himself as a friend of someone – James and Lilly? Lupin evidently thought that Harry knew them, as he would often tell him stories of them as if he did. Harry didn't mind too much, and he would correct the man's mistake once he could speak more.

Besides, he had to admit that the stories were interesting. This James sounded like he would be a good person to know, and Harry found it amusing how Lilly always got the last word in their arguments. As his strength returned, he found himself looking forward to the next story, although he strove to keep his face expressionless, as he had been taught to. It wouldn't do to let this stranger know his weaknesses, lest he exploit them.

Ron and Hermione were frequent visitors, and Harry allowed himself to lower his guard a couple of notches in their presence, even smiling briefly at one of Ron's more amusing tales. They talked about inconsequential matters of daily routine, but it was familiar to him, and somewhat soothing.

Once or twice he had awoken late at night to see Professor Dumbledore regarding him with an expression that Harry found hard to place. He never spoke, or stayed long, but he always nodded courteously to Harry when their eyes met, and Harry was thankful for his restraint. He knew that the punishment would come, that this time it was inevitable given his actions, but like any good commander, the Headmaster knew to wait until Harry was able to fully appreciate his dereliction of duty.

And then there was Ginny. Always there was Ginny. Soft hands adjusted his pillow, gently held out a cup for him to drink from, or darkened the room when it became too bright. He learnt to identify her presence from the flowery perfume that always accompanied her, or from the silky wisps of long hair that sometimes brushed across his face.

But she never spoke, or looked at him, and unease built up inside him. He marshalled his resources, turning his magic on himself as he had been taught to speed up the repairs to his vocal chords. He was certain that Snape knew what he was doing, as the sallow-faced Professor's lip curled even more each time he cast a diagnostic spell on Harry's throat.

Harry didn't care. He needed to speak, to get out of this bed, to make her talk to him. He knew that he was a monster, that she would probably turn on him as the other students had done, but a stubborn tendril of hope couldn't help to blossom inside him each time he felt her fingers tenderly changing the bandages on his slow-healing curse wounds.

If she cared enough to help him heal, wasn't it possible that she might care enough to forgive him?

"He was asking about you again, you know."

Ron's voice was flat and hard, containing more than a hint of reproachfulness. Ginny nodded absently, striving to conceal the twist of guilt she felt, but a softening in Ron's eyes told her she had fooled no-one.

Hermione's warm hand closed over hers, and Ginny felt the older girl's other hand rubbing her back comfortingly. "Ginny," she began hesitantly, and Ginny tensed in anticipation. She had been expecting this for some time now.

"I know that you must be – angry - with him-"

Ginny laughed humourlessly, the harsh sound drawing the attention of the other Gryffindors in the common room. She glared at them defiantly, then turned her ire on her two companions.

"Angry? You think this is because I'm _angry_ with him?" she hissed, eyes narrowed.

Ron paled, drawing back, then flushed, the tips of his ears turning red as they always did when his temper was up. "Well, aren't you?" he shot back challengingly. "You're up there every chance you can get – day _and night_," he added meaningfully.

Ginny glared at Hermione, who turned beet-red and looked away.

"Don't blame her," Ron defended, refusing to be side-tracked. "You're running yourself into the ground looking after him, but you won't speak to him, won't even _look_-"

"I _know_, Ron - okay?" Ginny's voice knifed through the quiet chatter in the common room and heads snapped round, all conversation stilled. Blushing, Ginny tore herself away from Hermione's comforting embrace and fled out the portrait door, stifling the sob which rose out of her throat.

Heedless of her surroundings, she tore through the castle corridors at random, ignoring the shouts of protest as she barged past others without regarding them. Panting, she slumped back against the corridor wall, sliding down it until she was sat on the cold floor. Drawing her knees up close to her chest, she buried her head from sight, pressing her forehead hard into her kneecaps.

She _was_ angry with him – of course she was. After all, he had run away and left her – left them all – worried sick about him. So why did Ron and Hermione find it so easy to let that pass?

Or, to put it more bluntly, why didn't she?

She looked up, gazing sightlessly at the stone wall opposite, and wished, not for the first time, that she could see her mum. Wiping a stray tear from her cheek, she balled her fist in sudden rage and punched the floor savagely. She was tired of crying all the time, tired of feeling so confused and suddenly absolutely sick and tired of Harry-bloody-Potter.

Scrubbing her face with her sleeve and studiously ignoring the scandalised cries from a large painting of elegantly dressed noblewomen, she scrambled to her feet and strode determinedly towards the Hospital Wing, eyes alight with fury.

"So, of course then James started screaming 'Not the jelly – not the _jelly'_ in this high-pitched voice, while Lilly stood there, absolutely furious, and Siri-"

Remus Lupin's lively voice stopped abruptly, and Harry looked up quickly. There it was again. Every time Lupin mentioned the name 'Sirius' he stopped talking and looked away, biting his lip. _Perhaps he died in the war_, he mused silently, eyes fixed on his companion's drawn features.

He swallowed, preparing his sore throat for speech. He had been practising talking when he was alone at night, but now seemed like the right time to test it out on someone. Despite his deeply ingrained caution, he liked Lupin. There was something very familiar about him, and Harry couldn't help but be drawn to his quiet melancholy. Lupin seemed like a man who had long ago resigned himself to being alone, and if there was one part of normal life that Harry knew about, it was _that_.

"L-Lu-pin," he managed, then paused in alarm at the thin, scratchy sound of his voice. Lupin's head shot round so quickly it almost looked like it would topple off, and Harry felt a rusty, unused smile on his face at the sight of Lupin's saucer-like eyes.

"Harry, did you say something?" Lupin's voice was as quiet as usual but filled with a trembling emotion that Harry couldn't quite place. He nodded.

"Been practising." He gulped. "T-Thirsty."

Lupin quickly handed him a glass of water, and Harry noted with interest that the older man's hand shook slightly as he past it over. Taking a long, soothing drink, he sighed at the cooling sensation.

"Better."

Putting the drink to one side, he pulled himself laboriously up, so that he could talk more easily. Lupin watched with bright eyes, but didn't try to help – Harry had made it quite clear that his help was not needed nor welcome.

Harry mumbled something which Lupin didn't catch. "Excuse me, Harry?"

Licking his lips, Harry ignored the painful sensation in his throat. He had found that the pain eased if he spoke more – and anyway, it was just pain. Nothing new.

"Wanted to ask you something – about your stories."

Lupin's eyes were shining suspiciously bright and he nodded jerkily. "I thought you might, Harry – go ahead."

Harry frowned slightly at the quiver in Lupin's voice. He cleared his throat, anxious to clear up any misconception.

"James and Lilly – who are they?"

The colour drained from Lupin's already pale face, and his mouth sagged open. Blindly reaching for the arm of the chair, he seemed oblivious to the sudden smash as he sent a jug of water crashing to the floor. Sinking into the chair he stared at Harry with a horror-struck expression on his face.

When he spoke, his voice was a low, toneless whisper. "Y-you d-don't know who they are?"

Harry shrugged, then regretted the gesture as he winced in pain. Carefully rubbing his left shoulder with his good arm, his brow furrowed in confusion as he replied, "No – should I?"

Lupin stood up so quickly that the chair toppled over, clattering to the ground amidst the widening pool of water from the cracked jug. Shaking hands covered his face, slowly dragging down his cheeks and leaving thin red weals behind. He backed slowly up as the shaking spread to his entire body.

Watching in shock, Harry's heightened Animagus senses screamed a warning as the light in Lupin's eyes shifted, darkening to a dull, angry red. Magical energy, long dormant while he had lain insensibly, flooded his system and invigorated his body. Flinging the covers back, he leapt out of bed without thinking, only for the uncoordinated weight of his still injured leg to send him sprawling across the floor. His vision blurred and he tasted blood in his mouth, but he twisted over, reaching out in the direction of his wand, lying on the bedside table.

The wand flew into his hand as readily as ever, and he rapidly crawled backwards away from Lupin without breaking eye contact. His back hit the next bed along with a painful thump and he quickly levered himself back onto his feet, still favouring one leg. Straightening up, he faced Lupin, cursing himself for not recognising it before.

Remus Lupin was a werewolf.

Lupin's shaking fingers crunched as they elongated, wickedly sharp nails growing from their tips. His ears became pointed and muscles in his body popped as his spine began to reshape itself.

The wolf inside Harry responded with fury, howling inside his head in rage at the insult of the half-breed's challenge, but Harry fought to keep his Animagus instincts at bay. If he let go now, someone would die. Fighting to keep his voice level, he spoke to the man he had begun to trust, the man who had saved him in the Forest.

"Lupin. Remus Lupin – can you hear me?"

Lupin's hands dropped from his face, and Harry saw his expression of horror. The reddened eyes clouded over, and Harry could see the man fighting for control.

"H-H-Harry. R-run." Lupin's voice was twisted and hate-filled as he choked the words out.

Harry shook his head mutely, not trusting himself to speak. His Animagus form was battering at the walls of his mind, beyond furious now at its imprisonment.

Something which might have passed for amusement flickered over Lupin's mouth, and Harry let out a sigh of relief as the nails shrunk back and the older man's eyes turned their familiar blue again.

"J-Just l-like your d-dad."

Harry reeled in shock. Lupin knew his father? His own wolvish instincts began to recede and he opened his mouth to speak, hardly knowing what to say.

With a crash, the door to the room rocketed open and an incandescent Ginny Weasley barrelled in.

"Right, Harry James Potter, it's time for you and me-"

An ear-splitting growl echoed round the room as Remus Lupin, control finally slipping, leapt straight for the wide-eyed girl, claws extended to rip out her exposed and defenceless throat.


	12. Apathy

Chapter 12 - Apathy

Fuming, Ginny Weasley strode towards the hospital wing, eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. A furious internal monologue sustained her wrath, even as the faint whisperings of doubt tentatively tried to voice their thoughts.

Her short legs pumped furiously as she hurtled up the final flight of stairs leading to the fourth floor. A small knot of students parted quickly as she advanced towards them, shrinking back towards the walls as she stalked past, her face a mask of barely repressed rage.

As she approached the heavy doors to the hospital wing, her nostrils flared as her anger mounted. Truthfully, she was no longer so certain that a furious confrontation was the correct way to proceed, but right now she was a mere bystander to her wayward temper.

Slamming through the doors without checking her stride, she wheeled right, heading for the private room that Harry still inhabited. The fact that this was the same room that he had leapt from when he had left her was not lost on Ginny, and served only to further fan the flames of her righteous indignation.

Pausing for only a moment at the room door, she took a deep breath in, and, combining magic and momentum, nodded in satisfaction as the door flew open with gratifying force. Barely allowing enough time for the door to come to rest, she rushed in after it and whirled towards the bed where she knew Harry would be lying.

"Right, Harry James Potter, it's time for you and me-"

Ginny's furious diatribe was cut off abruptly as her throat clenched in shock. A barely audible wheeze escaped her mouth as she stared in dumb disbelief at the events playing out in front her.

Gentle Remus Lupin, a man she had been introduced to as an old friend of Harry's parents, was glaring at her with absolute hatred, his face contorted with a cold savagery that Ginny hadn't thought him capable of. She watched in frozen astonishment as his body hunched over, dull red eyes fixed on her and mouth curving open to reveal sharp, glistening teeth.

The air was split by a terrifying growl which Ginny dazedly identified as coming from Lupin's throat. The noise snapped her out of her frozen state and she gasped, hands flying up towards her face in surreal slow-motion.

As her hands twitched up from her sides, she saw in hyper-real clarity the terrible hunger in Lupin's red, inhuman eyes as he crouched to jump.

Her hands cleared her waist. Lupin had halved the distance between them in one effortless leap. His own hands reached out for her, the nails thickened and wickedly sharp. Ginny stared in fascination at the rough texture of his skin, now sprouting thick, shaggy hair from every pore.

By the time that her hands were level with her chest she could see how Lupin's jaw was deformed by the rows of gleaming teeth that were now inches from her throat. A wave of hysteria flashed through her. _Why, grandmother, what big teeth you have_-

The wall slammed into her side with punishing force and she felt the bones in her right arm snap like twigs. Her vision was blurred by tears and she blinked rapidly to clear them as she slid gracelessly to the floor. Even with the exaggerated slowness of her adrenaline-fuelled perception, it look several eons for her to understand what she was seeing.

Dominating the foreground of her vision was an absolutely huge black wolf, curiously familiar to her addled brain, except – except this one seemed even bigger than she recalled it being before. It loomed over her, interposed purposefully between her and the thing that had once been Remus Lupin. The wolf's body quivered with rage and it snapped furiously at the Lupin-creature's flank, driving it backwards.

Ginny gasped as she caught sight of Lupin's horribly malformed body. Thick, matted clumps of hair half-covered a twisted shape which still somehow stood awkwardly aloft. The face was the worst; half-frozen in transformation, it was still recognisable as Lupin's but unnaturally elongated, the flesh melting and sloughing off the poorly-fitting human disguise.

The creature's eyes twitched towards Ginny as it heard her cry of terror, and the wolf went wild, charging at Lupin and sending him sprawling to the ground. Crouched in front of Ginny, the wolf barked, a series of low, urgent sounds that made the hair on Ginny's arms stand up, quivering. It evidently meant something to the creature, as it backed slowly off until it huddled in the corner furthest away from her.

Ginny stared wide-eyed as the form shifted and shrunk again, until the battered but entirely recognisable form of Remus Lupin lay huddled by the window.

The wolf watched dispassionately as the tremors shaking through Lupin's body subsided and the older man nodded jerkily, turning his face towards the wall. Then it turned towards Ginny and sniffed gently at her, looking intently at her injured arm.

Ginny felt hot breath lifting stray strands of hair as it leaned closer and a warm nose softly bumped against her cheek. Taking the hint she looped her uninjured arm over the wolf's back, then gasped as she was lifted up, higher than expected, and found herself clinging to a serious-looking Harry Potter, his arm tightly wound around her waist.

He stared down at her, his green eyes shot through with a fierce light. Unafraid, Ginny returned the stare unabashedly, even though she felt her cheeks begin to warm with a glow which she was fairly sure had nothing to do with her broken arm.

As if waiting to be remembered, her arm throbbed and she hissed in pain. Harry's expression became concerned, then shifted to the usual mask of professionalism as he carefully sat her on the nearest bed. He glanced at Lupin, still huddled on the floor, then flicked his gaze towards Ginny's arm.

"Compound fracture," he muttered in a detached tone. "No don't look-" he added quickly, but it was too late.

Ginny looked blankly at the jagged white bone which poked out of her blood-soaked sleeve. "That – that's got to hurt," she managed, feeling the contents of her stomach rise. Her eyelids flickered shut, and she slumped over in a dead faint.

~DP~

Ron's strained-looking face was the first thing that greeted her as the world swam back into focus. "Urgh," she said groggily. "Take it away."

Ron grinned at her words, masking his relief at her recovery with sarcasm. "Good to see you too, sister dear," he shot back.

Ginny rolled her eyes expressively and stuck her tongue out at him by way of a reply.

"Touching though this display of filial affection is, some of us have work to do, don't you agree, Headmaster?" Professor Snape's acidic tones brought Ginny back to reality, and she looked around, blushing at the assembled audience.

Glaring at her disgustedly, Professor Snape turned back to his patient, an exhausted-looking Remus Lupin. "Next time, Lupin," he hissed, "Might I suggest consulting a _qualified_ wizard before trying home-made solutions for your – condition?"

Lupin nodded weakly, his expression drained. "Thank you, Severus," he whispered gratefully. Snape nodded stiffly, then swept out of the room, the door closing firmly behind him.

Professor Dumbledore broke the uneasy silence that Snape's exit had engendered. "Now we have pleasant reunions over with," he said merrily, eyes twinkling with glee, "Might I congratulate our young people on making such excellent use of the Hospital Wing this term?"

Madame Pomfrey sniffed disapprovingly. "There seems to be little need for me to fear for my job, to be sure, Headmaster." She glared balefully over at the corner. "And by the look of this one, I'll be kept occupied for some time if he doesn't start heeding my advice."

Ginny followed the irascible Matron's gaze and her mouth dried as she saw Harry, stood leaning tiredly against the wall but evidently refusing to go back to bed. His eyes fixed on Ginny, and she felt her cheeks heat as she recalled his arm supporting her, and those eyes staring into hers…

With an effort, she ripped her eyes from his hypnotic gaze and took in the other inhabitants of the room. Ron sat at her side, Hermione sitting red-eyed next to him. At the foot of the bed, Madame Pomfrey fussed over the blankets needlessly, then gave a curt nod to Dumbledore and strode out of the door briskly, evidently continuing her rounds.

Near the window, Remus Lupin sat on a bed, struggling to pull his robes straight as Professor McGonagall tried to urge him to lie back.

"Remus, don't you think you need to rest first?"

Lupin shook his head, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. "I've done enough damage here," he said in a flat, lifeless voice. "I'm too dangerous to be trusted around children."

There was a long silence, during which everyone exchanged long, nervous looks, but no-one spoke. Ginny felt words of comfort bubble up inside her, then fade away. What could she, or anyone, say to make him feel any better?

Lupin nodded, as if he had been expecting their silence, then stood laboriously, glancing around for his few tattered possessions.

A calm voice broke the tense silence. "I was always taught that a man who knows his weaknesses is more valuable in a fight than one who does not."

Six heads whipped round to stare at the speaker with identical looks of astonishment.

Returning their looks with his usual equanimity, Harry Potter stood erect and walked slowly and carefully over to a shocked-looking Remus Lupin.

Another voice broke the silence. "And it seems to me that when someone saves your life, you have to return that favour and not let them just walk away."

Harry's head shot round to stare at Ginny, who glared back defiantly, unwilling to take back her words.

"Yes," he replied quietly, after a long silence. "I suppose that's right."

Ron stood up and looked steadily at Harry. "Me too, mate," he added. "And I bet Hagrid thinks so too."

The four of them exchanged long, meaningful looks until, with a loud clap of his wrinkled hands, Professor Dumbledore once again broke the silence.

"So," he said cheerily, as if oblivious to the deep currents of unspoken sentiment that filled the room, "who's for a nice cup of tea?"

~DP~

Grimacing at the taste of the long-since cooled tea, Albus Dumbledore set it back down carelessly on his desk. The cup clattered around the saucer, then tipped over and spilled its contents over a pile of parchment. Grumbling in irritation, the elderly wizard waved a trembling hand over the rapidly darkening parchment and the stain vanished immediately.

The trembling in his fingers caught his attention and he clenched his fist tightly, the skin whitening over his knuckles. He contemplated his clenched fist for a moment, then shook his head, his expression grim. In over a hundred years of existence, he thought he had seen enough atrocities committed in the cause of righteousness, but this…

He straightened painfully, feeling the tight muscles in his neck protesting at the movement, and looked directly at the late-night visitor to his office.

"You're certain?" It was barely a question, his tone bleak.

Poppy Pomfrey nodded, her stern face unusually fierce, even by her standards. "I had to look it up first, but yes – the signs are distinctive." She heaved a sigh, moisture glinting in the corners of her eyes.

"How could they do it Albus – how?"

Dumbledore shook his head numbly, unable to formulate a reply.

A soft tapping at the door interrupted their silent contemplation, and Remus Lupin stumbled through the door, looking more exhausted than ever. His greying hair hung limply across his features as he mumbled a greeting, his eyes refusing to meet theirs.

Dumbledore felt a fresh wave of sympathy for his former student as he took in the bedraggled, wasted-looking man he had become. Lupin was barely in his thirties, yet he moved like a man who was decades older. It was painful to recall the quiet, studious boy roaming this castle with his equally brilliant, but rather more boisterous friends. It was even more painful to think of what had become of those friends, for markedly different reasons.

Pulling open a drawer, he reached in and extracted two small phials, pushing them silently across the desk towards Lupin. The younger man frowned, his nostrils flaring as if he could smell the distinctive scent of the Wolfsbane Potion. Dumbledore sighed as he realised that Lupin probably _could_ smell the faint odour – heightened senses were one of the many side-effects the poor man suffered due to his affliction.

Lupin reached over and took the two phials, looking curiously at his old teacher. "I'm very grateful Albus – you know that, but…"

Dumbledore chuckled quietly. "You're wondering why you needed to come here at this time of the night to get your next doses of Wolfsbane?"

Lupin nodded slowly, his eyes suddenly wary. "Has Harry-"

"Mr Potter has finally agreed to get back into bed and is catching up on some much-needed rest," snapped Madame Pomfrey, perched stiffly on a high-backed chair.

The two men exchanged a look of suppressed amusement. The elderly Matron, on discovering the true identity of her latest charge, had insisted on keeping Harry in for extended bed-rest, muttering darkly about the stubbornness of the Potter family.

As their smiles faded, both men shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Lupin spoke first.

"So, why have you called me here, Albus?"

Dumbledore nodded approvingly at the man's forthrightness, but answered elusively. "First, I would like you to drink one of those doses, Remus," he said firmly.

Lupin raised an eyebrow speculatively, then uncorked a phial and chugged it down, pulling a face at the sour taste. His tense posture eased as the potion took effect, dulling his animal nature somewhat. "Okay," he said thickly, shaking his muzzy head to clear it. "I'm dosed up and ready – hit me with it."

A faint smile tugged at Dumbledore's lips, but his voice was serious as he answered. "After our conversation this afternoon, I asked Poppy here to run some tests on Harry whilst he was asleep."

Lupin's eyes widened. "Tests – on Harry?" he spluttered, fighting against the lethargic feeling induced by the Wolfsbane. "Why?"

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, looking intently at the other man. "You told me that your, erm, loss of control occurred because Harry didn't know who his parents were, correct?"

Lupin's face flushed an angry shade of red, and Dumbledore stiffened, his eyes flickering to Madame Pomfrey, who rolled her eyes in irritation and gestured for him to continue. Hoping that she was correct about the necessary dosage, he turned his attention back to the volatile werewolf.

As his face turned back to his normal colour, Lupin snorted humourlessly. "I wouldn't worry, _Professor_," he said bitterly. "There's enough Wolfsbane in me to keep a dozen werewolves at bay right now."

The older man nodded seriously, his eyes unwavering in their gaze. "That was the idea Remus – given what I have to tell you now."

He cleared his throat. "The fact is that Harry does know who his parents are – their names have been used by myself and others in his presence several times."

Pausing for breath, he took in the confused look on Lupin's face before continuing.

"In addition, I have it on good authority from Madame Pince that Harry has checked out several books from the library containing details of their lives – and deaths."

Scratching his face in bewilderment, Remus Lupin sat in contemplation for a moment, his bright eyes flicking to Madame Pomfrey and back again. Dumbledore sat quietly, his heart sinking as he watched the intelligent man piece it together.

"You said," started Lupin slowly, still thinking it through, "that you had Poppy run tests on Harry – but only when he was asleep. And this afternoon, he didn't know who James and Lilly were, even though-"

Lupin's voice cut off, and Dumbledore's hand closed over his wand as he leaned forward in his chair. He watched with a detached sense of curiosity as the werewolf's eyes darkened slightly, even with the Wolfsbane Potion surging through his veins. The change was only momentary, and soon subsided, but no amount of potion could restrain the very human emotions that Lupin was feeling.

"You mean to tell me," Lupin ground out, his whole body shaking with rage, "That those," his mouth worked silently as he tried to frame a word strong enough to express his emotions. "That they _did _something – to make him forget his own parents?"

Shoulders slumped dejectedly, Dumbledore nodded once, too ashamed to meet the man's eyes.

Lupin's eyes were narrowed to slits, and there was a sharp crack as he splintered one arm of his chair. Madame Pomfrey shifted uneasily, her hand straying inside her robes.

His breath coming in gasps, Lupin leaned forward, eyes boring into Dumbledore's skull. Feeling the weight of his gaze, Dumbledore lifted his head, and shivered internally at the fury in the younger man's gaze.

"Tell me, Dumbledore," Lupin said coldly, his face still working horribly. "Tell me that you didn't know."

The temperature inside the cozy room plummeted as the two powerful wizards locked eyes. "Remus," replied Dumbledore in a strained voice, "Do you think that I would have left him there if I had known?"

Tears collected in Lupin's eyes and overflowed down his cheeks. "Tell me," he repeated tonelessly.

"No," snapped Dumbledore harshly. "No, I didn't know. Does that satisfy you?"

Lupin nodded tersely, forcing himself back into his battered seat with a visible effort. After several uneasy moments, when the weight of unsaid recriminations became almost too much to bear, he whispered one word.

"Why?"

Not replying at first, Dumbledore stood up abruptly and turned to the window. The dark night revealed little, mocking him with his own reflection on the glass. _Because of me_, he thought, but didn't voice his fears.

"_They_ would probably say it was a distraction from his training," he whispered quietly to the night, not counting on Lupin's acute hearing picking up his words.

"A _distraction_?" Lupin's voice was shaking with incredulous anger. "His family?"

Turning, Dumbledore leaned back against the window ledge, bone-tired. His dull blue eyes, completely devoid of their habitual twinkle, regarded his old pupil levelly.

"I keep picturing a small boy with too many – irrelevant – questions about his identity, his family." He straightened up, feeling a deep-seated anger coursing through his veins.

"Inefficient for his mission, you see?" Dumbledore's voice was harsh, almost cruel sounding, and Madame Pomfrey flinched at the sound, her eyes lingering on his exhausted-looking face.

Crossing to the desk, Dumbledore picked up the thick sheaf of parchment that he had earlier spilled tea on. "It's all in here – now I know how to translate it." He read from the top page, his voice shaking slightly.

"Behavioural conditioning was employed to optimise mission efficiency of subject Phoenix."

Lupin mouthed the words silently, a look of disbelief in his eyes. Uncorking the second phial of Wolfsbane, he quickly emptied the contents into his mouth and let the empty bottle drop to the floor. Leaning back in the damaged chair, which creaked ominously, he closed his eyes and concentrated on steadying his rapid breathing.

"What now, Albus?"

Dumbledore was silent for so long that Lupin opened his eyes again, thinking the elderly wizard had not heard him. The Headmaster was sat back in his chair, lost in thought.

"Albus?"

The hairs on Lupin's arms stood straight up as the temperature turned arctic. He gasped in shock, his hot breath clearly visible in the frigid air. Seated across from him, Albus Dumbledore was looking directly at him with an expression that Lupin had hoped never to see again since the darkest days of the first Wizarding War.

When the Professor spoke, his voice cracked like a whip, filled with a terrible ancient authority that made the younger man quiver.

"You will stay here and help Harry in whatever way you can. He _must_ learn who he is, or we risk losing him forever." Lupin opened his mouth to interject, his mind whirling, but Dumbledore pressed on inexorably.

"_I _am going to do what I should have several weeks ago." He stood and extended an arm. Fawkes glided across to it, his own eyes blazing.

The flickering flames of the fire shifted and dimmed in the intense cold, and Lupin watched in awe as a swirling aura of magic flared into existence around the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

When he spoke, Dumbledore's voice resonated with ageless power.

"I am going to pay the Unspeakables a long-overdue visit."

Fawkes unfurled his wings, and with a blinding flash of golden light the phoenix and the Headmaster were gone.

Poppy Pomfrey exchanged a wide-eyed look with Remus Lupin as the log fire roared back to life and the temperature in the room became comfortable once more.

"Well," she said briskly. "It seems like we have a job to do." She stood, brushing out imaginary creases in her immaculate robes and Lupin dutifully imitated her, looking down at his shabby and wrinkled robes with an embarrassed air.

"I'll come to see Harry straight after breakfast," Lupin muttered quietly, and the Matron nodded brusquely, as if she had expected that.

"_I _will go and take over the night-time watch on Mr Potter," she replied calmly, walking to the door with rapid strides.

Taking a last look at the now-peaceful office, Lupin closed the door behind him and followed her down the winding stairs. "Take over?" he asked mildly.

Without breaking her stride, Madame Pomfrey shot him a look over her shoulder that was part irritation and part pride. "Unless I'm very much mistaken, Miss Weasley is currently watching over Harry."

Pausing for a moment on the stairs, Lupin felt the corners of his mouth twitching up in an unmistakable smile. "What is it with Potters and redheads?" he asked to no-one in particular.

"How the devil should I know?" responded an irritable portrait of a rather hefty wizard with a long bushy beard, cracking one sleepy eye open and glaring at the surprised wizard.

Shaking his head, Lupin chuckled quietly as he followed the distant sounds of Madam Pomfrey's clicking heels, his laugher echoing off the cold stone walls.


	13. Messages

Chapter 13 - Messages

Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, glared severely at the offending item. This simply would not do. Frown deepening, he pursed his lips – then blew.

The tiny mote of dust whirled away, leaving his 'Minister of the Year' award once again spotless. He sighed in satisfaction, relaxing back into his heavily padded chair, eyes roaming benignly around his office. All was as it should be. A place for everything, and everything in-

A low, discordant rumble interrupted his thoughts. He looked up sharply, brow furrowing slightly. After a long moment, he shrugged and turned his attention back to his trophy cabinet. Probably just one of those ridiculous Muggle earth-carriages passing overhead. He reached out lazily, minutely altering the angle of his latest award. In these matters, he found, it was important to achieve a harmonious balance across the whole collection.

A faint tinkling distracted him again. Glancing down, he saw his half-drunk cup of tea shivering on its saucer, as if disturbed by a sudden chill. Leaning forward slightly in his chair, he stilled the cup with one hand. Silence returned, but the cup still vibrated under his grasp. Rather than subsiding, the vibrations seemed to be getting worse. A symphony of rattles built as other small objects on the desk picked up the disturbance. Trying to quell the noise, Fudge half-stood, reaching with his free hand to stop an engraved letter-opener from a precipitous fall to the plush carpeted floor.

Frown lines now deeply etched into his round features, Fudge opened his mouth to call for his secretary when there was a dull thump and the carpet heaved under his feet. Knocked back into his chair, Fudge gazed around in dumb confusion. He staggered upright only to be sent sprawling by another explosion. Crying out, he watched helplessly as precious trophy collection was catapulted across the office. The Minister of the Year award shot past, narrowly missing slicing off his nose, and buried itself deeply in the wall behind his head. Fumbling for his wand, Fudge scurried around the desk, stumbling as the floor lurched once more. Through the thick oak door he could hear the faint sound of screams and the wailing of alarms.

The Ministry of Magic was under attack.

Outside his office, his personal protection detail was waiting, wands drawn. Their normally impassive faces bore the unmistakable signs of tension, and this scared Fudge much more than the screaming and wailing. For a moment, his legs weakened and he felt his resolve falter. He looked to the floor, unsure how to proceed. To his dismay, his expensive Nogtail-hide shoes were scuffed and stained with spilt tea.

This would not do. He breathed in deeply and looked around.

A confused huddle of witches and wizards cowered in the large office that comprised most of his executive chambers, flinching and crying out as the booms and thuds built to a crescendo.

Pointing his wand at his throat, Cornelius Fudge, the thirty-seventh Minister for Magic and twice recipient of the coveted Minister of the Year award, spoke with a calm authority he didn't feel. "Silence!"

Unfortunately, at the precise moment he spoke, the thundering explosions ceased entirely and his booming voice made nearby wizards wince in pain. Hastily cancelling the charm, he spoke more normally. "Ahem. Now, clearly there has been an incident somewhere in the Ministry-"

One of the nearby wizards muttered something that sounded distinctly rude, but Fudge pretended he hadn't heard it. He was good at that. Drawing himself to his full height, he tugged his robes straight and continued.

"We have procedures for this," he said, striving for a tone of mild disappointment. "You should now be in your assigned emergency positions and awaiting further instructions."

Several members of the assembled crowd looked at each other incredulously, but, as the Minister for Magic showed no further signs of continuing, they slowly moved towards the appropriate areas of the room, muttering softly. Fudge waited until the last person reached their designated safe area – for the most part, crouched under desks or in doorways – then sighed in satisfaction.

Much better.

"Now that we have all remembered ourselves," he said grandly, "I shall proceed to determine the cause of this incident." Pausing only long enough to ensure his protection detail went before him, wands still drawn, he swept out of the room, proud of his leadership skills. Now, if only he could get his shoes polished along the way, all would be well.

Following the rapidly moving backs of his bodyguards, Fudge trotted down the crowded corridors of the Ministry, dodging nimbly around broken furniture and avoiding the worst of the stains on the floor. To his further dismay, it appeared that many of the witches and wizards who worked here had forgotten their emergency positions as well. He made a mental note to hold further drills once this crisis was over. Not, he told himself firmly, that it was such a major crisis after all. The explosions had not resumed, and he felt certain that the situation would be well in hand by the time he arrived.

Thinking about it, he slowed his pace slightly. No use in arriving too early, he thought. After all, it wouldn't do if the Minister for Magic got caught up in the drama.

His guards flanked the doors to the lift and Fudge strode in confidently, well aware that all eyes were on him. As the bulky wizards filed in silently after him and the doors slid shut, Fudge glanced around nervously.

"Are – are we sure that this lift is undamaged?" he asked. The lead wizard in his detail nodded without speaking, arms folded. Fudge sighed. "Very well – proceed," he said, his tone indicating the exact opposite of his words. His stomach lurched as the lift plummeted downwards.

Watching the indicator, Fudge frowned as it shot past Level 2 and continued descending. He had felt sure that the current emergency had been due to Arthur Weasley tampering with another one of those infernal Muggle devices he seemed so enthralled by. They passed the level for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes without slowing. If anything the lift seemed to be accelerating. As they hurtled past the Department of Magical Games and Sports, Fudge adjusted his robes, preparing to step out into the Atrium level. The lift didn't felt the blood beginning to pound in his temples. "But that must mean-" he said out-loud.

The lead wizard smiled mirthlessly. "Yes sir," he replied, managing to make the last word sound like an insult. The lift stopped and the doors started to slide open. 'The Department of Mysteries," the wizard stated flatly, his expression hardening.

The lift doors shuddered to a halt, only half-open. Two of the protection wizards heaved at them, forcing them to open further. Dust whirled in through the opening and the doors yielded reluctantly, a thin squeal filling the air.

Heart hammering in his chest, Fudge thought for a moment that the noise had come from him. He watched, dry-mouthed, as the two wizards barreled out of the lift, heavy boots crunching over broken glass, and took up defensive positions. The lead wizard gestured for Fudge to follow them, but the portly Minster hesitated, his bulging eyes wide with fear.

"Is it-" he started croakily. He stopped, cleared his throat and tried again. "Is the situation - resolved?"

The lead protection wizard nodded slowly, his lip curling slightly. "The perimeter has been secured, Minister. Advance scouts report only one intruder."

Fudge straightened. "One person, you say?" He glanced at the three hulking wizards, his voice booming once more. "Well, I'm sure we can handle that, can't we?" He clapped the wizard on the back and strode out with fresh confidence.

The lead wizard shook his head slightly, speaking too quietly to be overheard. "Yes Minister, I'm sure _we_ can."

As he made his way down the long corridor that culminated in the simple black door granting access to the Department of Mysteries, Cornelius Fudge's newly gained confidence seemed to be sinking out of the soles of his scuffed shoes.

Long scorch marks marred the plain walls, indicating that a powerful bolt of magical energy had been released. As he reached the doorway, his unease deepened. The door appeared to be missing. As the advance guards continued onwards, Fudge paused by the door, fingering the splintered frame. The door had not been removed, as such, but rather it had been – vaporised.

His lead protection wizard cleared his throat behind him, and Fudge stiffened and walked through the empty doorway as if Imperioused. He certainly felt like he was acting against his will. Walking into the centre of the round room, he looked up, expecting to see the normal whirling of doors.

He gasped. Where the doors had been there were only ragged holes, each larger than the one before. It appeared that whoever had broken into the Ministry had lacked the patience to bother with the normal security procedures. On either side of the largest hole, several Aurors stood guard, their faces unreadable. Fudge walked slowly towards them, each step seeming to take more effort than the one before. He stopped in front of an Auror he vaguely recognized.

"Ah. Shacklebolt, is it?"

The man nodded. "Yes, Minister," he replied in his distinctive deep bass tones.

Fudge smoothed his robes habitually, and spoke again. "May I ask why you remain outside of this room?" His tones were mild, but contained more than a hint of rebuke.

Kingsley Shacklebolt hesitated, his eyes flicking towards the lead protection wizard. "Our – visitor – requested privacy for your meeting, Minister."

Fudge swelled with indignation, looking more like an enormous bullfrog than an irate senior politician. "Our visitor?" he screeched, his voice getting louder with each word. "We are not running a guest house, Shacklebolt!"

The Auror's face became, if possible, even more impassive. "No Minister," he replied tonelessly. "However, given the identity of this person, we felt it proper to comply."

Fudge, his face still red, stared at the man in confusion. 'The identity?" he repeated in a strangled whisper. "What on earth do you mean, man?"

A familiar voice floated out of the wrecked doorway behind the Aurors, carried effortlessly on the non-existent breeze. "Kingsley means me, Cornelius. Now why don't you come in?"

Moving jerkily, Cornelius Fudge took a few steps past the screen of the Aurors and peered into the large room beyond. Leaning comfortably on the edge of the dais that stood at the focal point of the large room, Albus Dumbledore waved cheerily at the astonished Minister, beckoning him forwards. Still moving as if under the Imperious Curse, Fudge slowly picked his way through the wreckage of the room towards the Hogwarts Headmaster, his expression slack and disbelieving.

The Chamber of the Veil of Arathea, more commonly known as the Death Chamber, had formerly been a well-ordered and tidy room. That had been before someone had evidently set both a troll and a dragon loose here. Large chunks of scorched masonry had been blasted from the smooth walls and littered the floor. Gaping cracks snaked across the ground, buckling the stone piers that had once made a rough seating area. The dais itself was listing to one side, heavily damaged. Only the Veil itself stood undisturbed and pristine, the thick dust that covered the rest of the room stopping in a neat circle around its base.

Coughing and waving one hand in a vain attempt to clear the air in front of him, Fudge made his way closer to Dumbledore, then stopped. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that his personal protection detail had taken up positions just inside the room, but had made no attempt to follow him further. He frowned at them, then turned to Dumbledore, who remained leaning against the remains of the dais.

"Dumbledore," he murmured, hardly believing what he was seeing. "What on earth have you done?"

The elderly wizard cocked an eyebrow. "Done, Cornelius? I don't think I know what you mean."

Fudge stifled a burst of hysterical laughter, looking around at the ruined room. "This room contains an ancient and priceless artifact. Good god man, what if you'd damaged the Veil of Arathea?" There was a long moment of silence, and Fudge shivered slightly, pulling his cloak more tightly closed to ward off the sudden chill that permeated the room.

Dumbledore regarded him evenly, his blue eyes piercing. " I take it you suspect me of causing this damage, Minister? This is a most serious accusation. As Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, I must warn you to be sure of your witnesses before proceeding."

Fudge's mouth dropped open. "Witnesses?" he croaked.

Dumbledore nodded calmly, his face utterly devoid of his customary geniality. "Of course, Cornelius." He tilted his head slightly to one side, eyes still boring holes into the inside of Fudge's skull. "You do have witnesses, don't you?"

Fudge made a strangled noise in his throat, and gazed wildly back at the Aurors still staying near the entrance. Kingsley Shacklebolt, catching his eye, shook his head almost imperceptibly. His shoulders slumping, Cornelius Fudge turned back to the older wizard.

"Ah," said Dumbledore in a sympathetic manner. "That does make matters complicated." He stood up effortlessly, suddenly much taller than the Minister. "It could be that I, arriving to meet with the Unspeakables, have stumbled on the aftermath of a horrible accident." He gestured around the room. "As you can see, it appears that the Unspeakables had left before my arrival, so unfortunately cannot confirm our appointment." Something flickered in his face, and the shadows in the room gathered and grew longer. "Most unfortunate." He took a step towards Fudge, who found himself unaccountably backing away, the sour taste of fear in his mouth.

"Of course you may indeed be right. If so, you really are taking a considerable risk."

Fudge gulped. "R-risk?" he quavered.

Dumbledore smiled mirthlessly, his expression cold. "Challenging the wizard who has just caused all this damage – a wizard who, forgive me, is considerably more powerful than yourself." He took another long step forward, his breath visible on the abruptly frigid air. "Very risky," he said calmly. "Brave – but very risky."

Backing up further, the Minister for Magic cast a panic-stricken look at the Aurors, who had made no move to intervene. His lead protection wizard shrugged slightly, then looked away.

Dumbledore's voice was low and harsh, and Fudge found himself drawn to it with a terrible fascination. "They wouldn't be able to save you, I'm afraid, if I were the villain of this piece. Even if they tried."

Given that the assembled Aurors showed absolutely no inclination to help their Minister, Fudge could only nod meekly, his brain apparently turned to stone.

"Ah then, it is just as well – that you were, in fact, merely visiting, I think?" Fudge managed, his voice rising to a squeak.

Dumbledore nodded slowly, and the room seemed to brighten once more. "Quite." He walked past the stricken Minister, heading for the shattered doorway, then stopped. Turning back, he spoke again. " If I may, Cornelius, I would like to beg a small favour."

The Minister nodded eagerly, anxious to be back in his warm, secure office once more. "Of course, Dumbledore – you have only to ask."

The faintest hint of humour glinted in the older man's eyes as he replied. "Most kind, Cornelius." His expression hardened once more, and he seemed to grow in stature as he advanced upon the terrified Minister. "You might choose to call this a message, Cornelius."

His throat closing up, Fudge soundlessly mouthed, "Message ?"

Dumbledore nodded, his face serious. "Should the Unspeakables return once I have left, I would appreciate it if you were to give them this." He made a gesture in the air and Fudge jumped as Fawkes, appeared on Dumbledore's shoulder in a flash of fire. The bird extended one wing and Dumbledore plucked a long feather from it, holding it out to Fudge.

With trembling hands, Fudge took the feather, gazing up at Dumbledore uncomprehendingly. "A feather?"

"A phoenix feather, Cornelius," Dumbledore corrected mildly. He looked directly at the Minister, his eyes alight with a cold fury that chilled the man to the bone.

"You don't happen to know anything about phoenixes, do you, Cornelius?" Fudge felt the light touch of Dumbledore's Legilimency brush across his mind. He looked away, denying him access. "Phoenixes, Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore nodded slowly, "One in particular."

Fudge forced himself to meet the older man's eyes. "No more than you, Albus," he said, surprising himself. He felt the brushing sensation again, but didn't break eye contact. The temperature in the room plummeted and torches guttered as the two men regarded each other. Fudge felt Dumbledore methodically examining his memories, and tensed as he reached a certain set.

"So," mused Dumbledore, almost distractedly. "You had your suspicions." He looked again at Fudge, and this time his eyes were full of a terrible, burning shame. "But then so did I." He looked away. "Neither of us acted on them." Fawkes made a low, crooning sound, and Dumbledore appeared to draw himself back again. "Yes," he murmured. "Time to move on." He strode away, moving purposefully towards the exit. "Goodbye, Cornelius. Thank you for passing on the message."

Fudge stared in confusion at the phoenix feather. "The message?" he enquired.

Without breaking stride or looking back, Dumbledore clicked his fingers and the feather burst into flame. Fudge cried out in shock, but the flame did not injure him. In seconds, the feather was reduced to ashes. "Be sure they receive it, Cornelius," called Dumbledore as he quickly walked between the Aurors, who parted respectfully to let him through.

Fudge watched him leave, his legs shaking with relief. He glanced down at the charred remains of the feather, then around at the chaotic wreck of the Unspeakables' prized Chamber of Death. He shivered. He couldn't imagine that the Unspeakables would be foolish enough to return while Dumbledore was still pursuing them, but if they did, he felt certain that they would understand the message. He crunched his way across the broken rock towards his waiting Aurors, depositing the ashes of the Phoenix feather neatly on one of the few intact stone piers. Making his way out through the circular room, he walked out into the main corridor and waited for the Aurors to join him.

Kingsley Shacklebolt cleared his throat. "Sir, what should we do?"

Fudge looked at him in surprise. "Do?" He shrugged. "We do nothing." He gestured at the broken remains of the doorway. "Seal up that door, then walk away."

The Auror looked puzzled. 'Sir?"

Fudge sighed. "There was no visitor today. The Unspeakables let one of their experiments explode on them, and so must deal with the consequences themselves."

Shacklebolt looked skeptical. "Sir, with respect, I can't see anyone believing that."

The Minister had already turned away and was heading for the lift. "Why not? It is, after all, the truth." The lift doors closed jerkily, and he was gone.


	14. Reflection

Reflection

With her wet hair draped heavily across her shoulders, Ginny Weasley sat at the small dressing table the First Year girls shared, regarding herself critically in the mirror. Casting a quick drying charm over her long hair, she sighed as the dark mass of hair brightened to its usual fiery red.

She leaned closer and inspected her pale, freckled face solemnly. "You silly little girl, Ginny," she whispered to her reflection – then froze as she watched her face grow even paler.

She had heard those words before.

In the mirror, her scared-looking reflection gazed back gravely. She stared it down, willing herself to repeat the mantra that sustained her through many sleepless nights. "He's not here any more. He can't hurt you any more." Her reflection looked doubtful and Ginny shook her head savagely, leaning closer to the mirror. "He's not inside you any more – get it?" In the mirror, she watched herself nod quickly – too quickly – and sighed. It would have to do.

With an effort, she tore herself away from the mirror, crossing towards her bed and examining the objects on it with an air of quiet resignation. Unlike the other girls in her dorm, she didn't look forward to Saturdays. The weekend meant no requirement for uniform, and that meant-

Her eyes swept over the threadbare assortment of cast-offs, hand-me-downs and worn-out rejects that made up what her dorm-mates laughingly called her wardrobe. Slumping on the bed, she picked up her favorite jumper and ran her hands over it lovingly, ironing out invisible creases. A present from Charlie, it had a fire-breathing dragon emblazoned across the front. He had given it to her at Christmas, eyes twinkling as she read the label – I saw this, and thought of you. She smiled at the memory, but her face fell as she recalled the worry in his eyes at her muted, listless reaction.

Still, she told herself firmly, that was all in the past. Right now, she had to finish getting ready for her visit to see Harry. On cue, her cheeks flared with heat, and she silently cursed – not for the first time – her pale skin. Thankfully, her dorm was empty, otherwise she was fairly sure the other girls would have had been adding more wild speculations about her odd behavior recently.

Cramming the bulk of her clothes heedlessly into her battered trunk, she slammed the lid shut and turned to regard the remaining items. Pressing the back of her hands to her heated cheeks, she mentally chastised herself as she strove to make a clothing decision. Warily, she picked up the other item of clothing that had survived the mass cull, and gazed at it mistrustfully. It wasn't that it wasn't nice – it was. In fact, it was the nicest thing she owned, even if she wasn't the first owner. She looked at it appraisingly. It was lovely, and the one time she had tried it on she'd felt incredibly grown up.

That was the problem.

Laying it carefully back on the bed, she deliberately picked up the jumper instead, pulling it firmly over her head. Ever since Harry's return - and despite her best efforts to act as if nothing had changed – something had. She shivered, filled with an inexplicable mixture of excitement and nervousness. Try as she might, her traitorous mind insisted on replaying the memory of Harry's warm arm wrapped around her waist; the way that he had held her close – as if – as if-

Thrusting the thought aside with a mental effort, she began brushing her hair roughly, wincing as her hair was pulled by the savagery of her actions. After a few moments, feeling calmed by the repetitive strokes of the brush, she looked in the mirror again, scowling as she caught sight of the clothing still lying on the bed behind her. Whirling around, she yanked the trunk open and placed the offending item of clothing on top of the jumble of clothes stuffed inside. Stood over the trunk, she gazed down at it, biting her lip in indecision.

Her lip curled, and she snorted with laughter, suddenly amused by her turbulent thoughts. "For goodness's sake, Ginny," she said aloud. "You've got to stop reading Mum's copy of Witch Weekly." Shutting the lid of the trunk firmly, she turned the lock with an air of finality. As she sat back in front of the mirror, she gave her reflection a challenging glare. "What are you looking at?" she asked, watching her cheeks flame red. "Nothing to see here – right?"

Her reflection returned her gaze doubtfully, but remained silent.

~DP~

Green eyes unblinking, Harry crouched in the dank cellar, barely breathing. His ears strained for the slightest hint of his approaching enemy. Muscles tensed, he waited patiently, body coiled and ready.

There. Out of sight behind the moss-stained pillars, the faint sound of a foot slipping. It was immediately silenced, but it was enough. Careful not to shift his own feet on the wet stones, Harry oriented his body towards the sound and pounced.

Carried by the released energy of his muscles and buoyed by a non-verbal Levitation Charm he soared high into the air, easily clearing the loose web of broken furniture and ancient statues that had kept him from sight. At the apex of his jump, he twisted in mid-air to prepare for landing, tensing his right forearm to trigger the spring-loaded wand holster. Up ahead, he could see a faint shadow moving quickly as the man reacted swiftly to the threat.

Harry bared his teeth in a lupine grin as he tensed for the impact of the landing. The man was good, no doubt about it. Just not quite good en-

A wave of agony shot through his left leg as he slammed into the hard stone floor. Instantly his knee buckled and he lurched forward, the ground rushing up to meet his face. Desperately, he converted his momentum into a forward roll, flipping up and around, then skidding backwards on his knees as he battled the pain and lifted his wand to strike.

Too late.

The bright light hit him dead-centre on the chest and he felt his muscles spasm, and freeze. Even as he slid to a halt on the floor he knew that he was as good as dead, helpless in the Full Body Bind as his enemy advanced on him. A wave of shame swept over him, momentarily overwhelming the stabbing pain from his injured leg. After all the long years of training, the discipline and endless practice, to be defeated without even getting off one spell…

The dark room was filled with a warm golden light, and, in a futile effort, Harry tried to brace himself for the impact, but his body was stone, ice waiting to be shattered-

"Harry?"

Harry looked up in confusion, or, at least, focused his eyes in the general direction as well as he could in his current state of immobility. There was a soft muttering and he was released. His tense body moved sharply before he could prevent it, and a fresh wave of pain pulsed up from his damaged leg. He let out a brief low hiss of agony before his mouth clamped shut, sealing it in. No sense in compounding his failure by broadcasting his weakness, he thought bitterly.

"Harry, are you alright?" Remus Lupin's voice was sharp with anxiety as he stood looking at the young boy sprawled awkwardly on the filthy floor. Without looking up, Harry nodded jerkily, then laboriously hauled himself to his feet.

Lupin regarded him sadly. His hands twitched with an involuntary urge to help Harry up, but the disciplined and reserved student had made it clear previously that such help would not be welcomed. Instead, he watched helplessly as a white-faced Harry, forced to use a nearby desk for support, stood up slowly and painfully. " I think that's enough for today," he said firmly.

Ignoring the look of displeasure that flickered across Harry's dirt-streaked face, he made a swirling gesture with his wand, and the dark cellar surroundings faded away. In its place, an evenly lit and painfully austere bedchamber appeared. Lupin watched sympathetically as Harry limped towards a chair, then turned to take in the room, preventing the boy from seeing his expression. Neither emotional or physical support were impulses Harry responded well to.

In truth, there was little to look at in the spartan surroundings. A simple bed was pushed into the furthest corner, as if sleep were a weakness Harry didn't want to admit to. A wooden desk, mostly covered with neat piles of books. A hard, upright chair, a fireplace and a chest of drawers made up the remainder of the Harry-sanctioned necessities for life. When he had first seen what Harry had asked the Room of Requirement for, Lupin had laughed, certain that Harry had been making a rare joke. Of course he wasn't. Harry didn't make jokes. Not with me at least, Lupin thought again. Following that thought, his eyes strayed towards the other, non-Harry approved objects that had crept into the room during Harry's two-week confinement.

Shockingly bright against the muted colours of the room, the vase of fireflowers was wedged between the piles of books on the desk, their heads nodding as they dozed. Lupin noted with amusement that the vase had dislodged some of the neat book stacks, destroying the symmetry of Harry's personal library.

Pinned haphazardly to the wall was Ron's contribution – a Chudley Cannons scarf in all its livid orange glory. Lupin winced – even he found the scarf rather garish, but, like the flowers, Harry tolerated its presence.

Finally, a neatly framed and large-scale map of the British Isles hung precisely over the centre of the chest of drawers, decorated with small coloured dots showing Muggle places of interest as well as the homes of people Harry knew. There weren't many dots in the latter category, Lupin noted with a silent sigh.

As Harry sat down stiffly on the hard wooden chair, Lupin lounged back in the newest addition to the room – his old, overstuffed armchair that he had requested from his own meager store of possessions. Harry gave the latest interloper a baleful look, but said nothing, stretching out his injured leg. Lupin regarded him narrowly – the leg had to hurt, but, apart from the one, quickly stifled hiss, Harry had given no indication. He surreptitiously cast a spell and examined the deep violet glow emanating from the tip of his wand.

"You're hurt," he commented quietly. He'd learnt that Harry responded better to precise statements than open-ended questions.

Harry looked up, his quick eyes taking in the spell that still lingered on the older wizard's wand. "Nothing I can't handle," he replied flatly.

"I'm sure," Lupin replied with bitter dryness. After the first time they'd run one of the combat simulations Harry had insisted on, he'd asked Harry why he hadn't cried out with pain. This was after Madame Pomfrey had launched herself out of the Floo in response to the alerts from her monitoring spells. "Practice," Harry had replied, in a voice that indicated the subject was closed.

Lupin had said nothing, but after the second training session, when it became apparent that Harry had somehow managed to cancel Madame Pomfrey's monitoring spells, he had taken to carrying out his own check-ups.

He rose from the chair, crossing to the table and looking down at the one open book. His heart lurched as he saw the familiar faces of James and Lilly Potter staring back at him. "How – how are your studies going?" he asked, as evenly as he could manage.

"I still don't know who they are, if that's what you mean," Harry responded disinterestedly. Lupin's shoulders slumped. As per Dumbledore's instructions, he had devoted considerable time and energy each day in coming up with new ways to try to stimulate Harry's locked-off mind. So far, there had been no discernible sign of improvement.

He turned to look back at Harry, meeting the boy's gaze. He knew that Harry didn't like it when people stood behind him, so he walked in a semi-circle towards the fireplace. The flames burnt neatly, even their elemental forces seemingly cowed into order by Harry's presence. From across the room, he watched worriedly as Harry flexed the leg and winced lightly. "You're pushing too hard," he said, unable to prevent the worry from filling his voice.

Harry looked up, and the hard lines of his face relaxed slightly. "You worry too much," he replied. An outside observer would have thought it a rebuke, given Harry's calm tones, but Lupin knew better than that now.

"And you not enough," he said, his soft voice taking the sting out of the sentence.

Harry shrugged, and heaved himself up, limping towards the washbasin. Slowly and methodically, he began to wash the grime from his face and hands.

Lupin noted that Harry didn't once check his face in the mirror.

~DP~

The wind howled gleefully, spiteful hands plucking at the frail old man's thin clothes as he trudged onwards. After enduring several stares and even some offers of help from solicitous passing Muggle tourists, he had left the road behind and set off across the flat plains, his destination clearly visible even though still some distance away. Even at this distance, he could feel the power emanating from the ancient monument, waves of disorientating raw energy smothering his magical core, forcing him to make the slow and painful journey on foot.

This, of course, was no coincidence. Given his identity, and the nature of his quarry, it was perhaps inevitable that the meeting he had been seeking for the last two weeks had brought him here. After all, when you were probably the single-most powerful wizard alive, where else could an enemy meet you on an equal footing?

His long robes catching yet again on a sparse patch of brambles, Albus Dumbledore sighed heavily, yanking them free and muttering irritably. High in the sky overhead, a piercing shriek told him that Fawkes was still shadowing his every move. As an entirely magical creature, landing anywhere near the stone circle would have been fatal to Fawkes, but the phoenix had insisted on following him from afar. Tilting his head back, Dumbledore could just make out the dark form of the creature circling directly overhead. He smiled wearily as a faint message from Fawkes crossed the divide between them. Indeed. This really was no place for a man who had celebrated his first centenary some years past. If he had not been who he was, it was doubtful that a wizard of his years could have made the long journey from Salisbury, the nearest wizarding outpost.

He shrugged. Complaining about the wind and mud was futile, given the abundance of both between him and his destination. He gathered his robes more tightly around his thin body and continued on.

It took another three hours before he walked wearily onto the Muggle-made path that skirted around one side of the ancient stone structure. The sky was dimming as night gathered more closely around him. He couldn't make out the faithful phoenix still circling overhead, but knew he was still there. Unlike him, Fawkes never seemed to tire.

He cast a careful look around before taking the final few steps to complete his long and tiring journey. Up close, the giant monolithic circle dominated his field of vision, and it was an effort to tear his gaze of it long enough to check for any Muggles in the vicinity. Of course, their perception of what they knew as Stonehenge was radically different from his. To their eyes, it was little more than the ruined remains of a once complete circle, but he, along with any other magical being, could see the truth. The stones were joined at the top to form a continuous, unbroken structure; essential to prevent the volatile well of naturally occurring magic from blanketing half the country with its violent and unpredictable energy.

Satisfied that no-one else was present, outside the circle at least, he took a deep breath in and drew his wand, even though he knew it was useless above the magical fissure. He tightened his knarled fingers around the smooth wood, drawing some measure of comfort from the familiar sensation. The energy buffeting him was immense, pushing and nagging at his mental shields, sapping them with each passing moment. He couldn't afford to linger outside any longer, and besides, after the last weeks of effort he was eager to get some answers. His burning rage may have cooled considerably since his reckless actions at the Department of Mysteries, but his desire to know the truth about Harry remained unchanged.

Stepping over the boundary of the shield wall, he sighed in relief as the energy levels subsided noticeably; not enough to risk using his own magic but a welcome respite compared to conditions outside. Now that he was within the structure, he could see that he was not alone.

A cloaked figure, its face masked by a hood, sat facing him on the far side of the enormous circular table that dominated the centre of the enclosed space. Dumbledore approached slowly, taking the time to drink in all the details he could. The man - or woman - sat composedly, seeming to regard his approach with equanimity. Dumbledore noted with annoyance that the other figure's robes were perfectly clean, in stark contrast to his own rumpled, torn and mud-stained attire.

The figure made a brief gesture as he drew near, indicating the stone bench opposite. Masking his annoyance at his opponent's superfluous display of courtesy - there were no other places to sit - Dumbledore sat heavily, nearly groaning with relief. The long journey had taken its toll physically - just as the silently watching figure had intended, he knew.

The two cloaked magicians regarded each other, neither speaking. As the silence dragged on, Dumbledore stirred impatiently. He was far too old for these kind of power-games. "I do hope," he began pleasantly, "that you didn't call me here just so we could look at one other?"

The hooded figure shook its head, but didn't reply. Impatience swelled into anger as the silence extended still further, and the elderly wizard spoke again, more harshly this time. "I think you will find that a conversation requires both parties to speak. Please do not waste any more of my time than you have already done."

The figure stirred, leaning forward slightly. "Time," it said finally, in a voice barely above a low hiss, "is irrelevant."

Dumbledore felt his face redden, despite the chill evening air. Two weeks away from Hogwarts was not something he took lightly, despite daily updates from Minvera. "I can assure you that time is most certainly not irrelevant," he snapped angrily.

A dry, rasping chuckle emanated from the figure. "That," it replied more clearly, "depends entirely on one's perspective, wouldn't you agree, Albus?"

Dumbledore sat in stunned silence.

The figure sighed. "Forgive these theatrics, old friend, but the truth is," it said, lowering the hood that had obscured its features, "it's really extremely cold out here, don't you think?"

Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, had rarely been so completely at a loss for words in the long years of his life. Sat facing him was the one man he trusted completely, the only wizard with whom he had confided all his secrets and whom he had worked alongside several times in his career.

Somehow, he found his voice. "For someone whose funeral I attended six months ago, you are looking most remarkably well, Nicolas."

Nicolas Flamel returned his gaze unashamedly, his thick golden hair glowing faintly against the now dark sky. " A necessary subterfuge Albus, as you might imagine."

"Indeed," Dumbledore managed to choke out.

Flamel smiled faintly, then leaned forward, his preternaturally youthful appearance at odds with the weary expression he wore. "I think," he said calmly, "that an explanation is in order."

Dumbledore just stared.

Scratching his head idly, Nicolas Flamel composed himself unhurriedly, as only a man who literally had all the time in the world could, before speaking. When he did speak, however, he came straight to the point.

"I was first approached by the Unspeakables last summer,as Perenelle and I - yes, she's also still alive - made our final preparations. The Unspeakables had found themselves in an...unusual position and requested my assistance."

"Assistance?"

Flamel nodded heavily. "To be exact, they had made a terrible mistake and now needed my unique gifts in alchemy to try to undo the damage."

Dumbledore looked down at his hands for a moment, breathing evenly. "Harry."

"Harry," Flamel agreed tonelessly. He rubbed his mouth, lost in thought, then continued. "How much do you know, or suspect, about what Harry is capable of?"

The direct question took Dumbledore by surprise. "Well, I saw first-hand his combative instincts, as well as his Animagus form."

Flamel nodded absently. "Impressive, yes, but not what I meant."

Dumbledore frowned. "Elemental magic," he said slowly. "His gifts are almost without parallel, especially for one so young."

"Indeed," Flamel replied, his face grim. "Almost without parallel. But not quite."

Dumbledore's mind whirled and he felt his stomach lurch. "Nicolas, you can't mean...Tom?"

"I'm afraid so, Albus."

"But," Dumbledore spluttered. "How? Some kind of transference?"

Flamel looked pained. "Worse than that." He looked away, visibly composing himself. Dumbledore's face paled. What kind of horrific experiment had the Unspeakables performed that shocked a man who was approaching his seventh century of existence?

"Tell me, Albus," asked Flamel, carefully enunciating each word, "what do you know about H-"

A piercing shriek cut through his sentence and a blinding flash of fire lit up the night sky. Dumbledore gasped, flying to his feet. "I must leave. Now." He was already turning to leave when Flamel interjected.

"Good god man, what on earth is the matter."

The gray-haired wizard turned, his eyes wild. "Fawkes has been summoned by a student at Hogwarts." He gulped, his face ashen. "Ginny Weasley is in mortal peril."

With a whirl of his robes, he raced out of the circle and was lost from view.

Nicolas Flamel sighed, sitting back down again. "That's what I feared," he muttered to himself, and took a mobile phone out of his robes. Curiously, unlike wizard magic, naturally occurring magic had no effect on Muggle technology whatsoever.

The number he dialed was answered immediately. "It's happening. Right now. Hogwarts."

He listened for a moment. "That is correct. Ginny Weasley. Do what you can." He slipped the phone back into his robes and darted for the exit, following the path of his impetuous young friend.


End file.
